


bring us a dream

by thistidalwave



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7556380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor’s mind races. He’s got a pretty busy work week coming up, and he’s not sure what Mitch’s shifts are like, but— “Tomorrow morning?” he asks. “If you’re free?”</p><p>“Uh, sure,” Mitch says. He glances at Dylan, then looks back at Connor. “Is your boyfriend coming on this date with us, honey?” </p><p>Connor ignores the burn in his cheeks at the pet name. Dylan snorts. “You mean am I coming to your lame strategy meeting for fucking beer league?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	bring us a dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merryofsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryofsoul/gifts).



> This fic... *looks at the word count* may have gotten a little out of hand. Special thanks goes out to my lovely betas for dealing with this nonsense, you're all heroes. 
> 
> I hope you like it, merryofsoul! <3

“You’re such a nerd,” Dylan tells Connor, deliberately taking his sweet time about making sure he’s got all his hockey stuff together.

Connor huffs from where he’s standing next to the door ready to go. “Do you want to make friends, Dylan? Or do you want to be the assholes who show up late to their first practice?” 

Dylan stops dawdling and zips up his bag. “Okay, fine,” he says. “You’re still a loser, though.” 

Despite leaving absurdly early, Dylan and Connor aren’t the first ones to arrive—there’s already a bag in a corner of the dressing room when they get there. Dylan immediately gestures at it and says, “Look, someone’s a bigger nerd than you.” 

“Shut up,” Connor says.

“Seriously, I wonder who that try-hard is,” Dylan jokes, sitting down and pulling his skates out of his bag.

Connor is looking away and getting his gear out of his bag, but Dylan can tell he just rolled his eyes anyway. “If they’re a try-hard, what are we?” 

Dylan shrugs. “That’s what I’ve been saying,” he says. 

Despite how much Dylan razzes Connor for being a nerd, it’s not like he doesn’t want to make a good impression on their new teammates as well. They’ve always had a large circle of friends, so moving back after six years in Montreal and not having any is weird, to say the least. The problem is that making new friends requires them to make an effort to do something other than watch bad TV and go to bed early every night. It’s taken them almost two months to get off their asses and actually sign up for this co-ed recreational hockey league, and Dylan is just as nervous as Connor that it might be a bust.

When they’re done suiting up, Dylan picks up his stick and looks over at Connor. “I guess we should go introduce ourselves, eh?” 

“Probably,” Connor agrees. "Kiss for luck?"

Dylan softens immediately. Even though Connor went all-in once they decided to do this, he knows Connor sometimes gets nervous about new people. He leans in and gives Connor a quick peck on the lips. "We got this," he says, following it up by tapping Connor in the ass with his stick. “Seriously,” he continues as they head out to the ice, “I don’t know why you have to be a try-hard when you’re going to be the best player in a fuckin’ beer league, dude.” 

They both stop when they get out to the bench. There’s a guy at one end of the rink taking shots on net, and even just watching him stick handle for a minute makes Dylan start to reevaluate. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Maybe it’s a good thing we’re here early. We’re probably pretty rusty.”

Connor scoffs and jabs Dylan in the side with his elbow. “Speak for yourself,” he says, and then he’s opening the door to the ice and skating off toward the guy. Dylan follows right behind him. 

“Hey,” Connor says, coming to a stop in front of the guy and holding out a hand for a fist bump in lieu of a handshake. “Nice shot, man.” 

This close, Dylan is struck by just how attractive this guy is, especially when he smiles and bumps Connor’s fist with his own. Sure, Dylan is in a committed relationship, but he’s been with Connor since high school, and they’re too secure in their relationship to harbour any real jealousy about looking at other people. 

“Thanks,” the guys says. He nods in greeting to Dylan, and Dylan nods back. “Haven’t seen you two around here before?” 

“We’re new to the area,” Connor says. “Well, new-ish, we both grew up in the GTA. I’m Connor, and this is my boyfriend, Dylan.” 

“Mitch,” he says by way of introduction. “That’s cool, what brings you here?” 

“The rink or the city?” Connor asks.

Mitch laughs. “Both?” 

“City’s my fault, I got a job at a law firm here,” Connor says. “Rink’s pretty self-explanatory, I guess.” He steals one of the pucks by Mitch’s feet, stickhandles it back and forth, and then passes it back to Mitch, who stops it easily. Dylan rolls his eyes internally; Connor can be such a show-off. At least now Dylan pretty much knows for sure that Connor thinks Mitch is good looking, too.

“I guess it is,” Mitch agrees, flashing that devastating smile again. “Welcome to the team, guys. Nice to have some more skill around here.” 

“Thanks,” Dylan says. It doesn't seem fair that this guy is so charming on top of being hot, but apparently that's something Dylan's going to have to deal with.

The conversation turns primarily to hockey from there as they start trading tips and showing off a little more while they’re warming up. Eventually the rest of the team shows up, and even though almost everyone seems to know each other already, they do an icebreaker game to start practice off. It doesn’t do a whole lot to help Dylan remember names, though he knows that shit always works for Connor. He’s not going to rely on Connor to tell him who people are, though, so he tries to introduce himself again whenever he talks to someone for the rest of practice. 

It seems to be a good group of people, everyone in high spirits, and there are a few pretty talented players, too. Mitch is probably the best—next to Connor, of course—but TK and Lawson are good on a line together when they scrimmage, and they have a crazy good goaltender named Emerance, though she insists everyone call her Em. 

Dylan is tired but feeling good by the time practice ends. After spending a couple hours seeing Mitch be really good at hockey, it’s almost unfair when Dylan catches a glimpse of him half-naked from across the dressing room. Dylan’s not trying to be a creep, but he’s not _blind_ , and Mitch’s body is—Dylan’s not thinking about this. By the time he and Connor are in the car on the way home, he’s had ample time to _not_ think about it. 

“So,” Dylan says, “what’d you think?” 

Connor keeps his focus on the road. “Of practice? Seems like a pretty good team, I’m glad we went.”

“Same,” Dylan agrees. “Anyone in particular seem cool?” 

“Are you fishing for me to say that I think Mitch is hot?” Connor asks, and Dylan breathes a sigh of relief.

“No,” Dylan lies. Then he adds, “I already knew that,” which is true, because even though he was being cautious, he didn’t miss the way Connor’s eyes followed Mitch on the ice. “But we can definitely talk about it. For starters, he’s got a pretty great face.” 

“And he’s really fucking good at hockey,” Connor says, tone almost reverent. 

“That _would_ be the thing you found most attractive,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes. 

“Shut up, you were thinking it,” Connor says. 

“Okay, yeah,” Dylan says. “It’s just—his face is _really_ good, you know?” 

“It absolutely is,” Connor agrees. “I wonder what he does for a living?”

“No idea,” Dylan says, shrugging. “It’s probably something insanely perfect, like saving kittens from trees.”

Connor laughs. “Probably.” 

“Ugh,” Dylan says. “Seriously, though, it would be a damn shame if a puck messed up that jawline.”

“Too true,” Connor says. “Maybe you’ll have to start blocking shots.”

“And risk this?” Dylan scoffs, gesturing to his own face. “I don’t think so.” 

“Speaking of risking that,” Connor says, taking one hand off the steering wheel to flap sarcastically in Dylan’s face, “do you think, like, models or whatever are even allowed to play hockey?” 

Dylan frowns. “Probably not,” he says, and they end up spending the rest of their drive home debating about what, exactly, any model’s given contract might prohibit them from doing. 

 

 

It turns out that Dylan’s guess at Mitch’s profession wasn’t that far off. When Mitch isn’t busy being totally hot on the ice, he’s being totally hot while saving people's lives. At least, Dylan assumes he looks hot in his paramedic uniform or whatever. It’s hard to imagine Mitch ever looking anything _but_ hot, and being a paramedic is a pretty noble (and thus hot) job, even if Mitch does try to downplay it.

“It’s not that cool,” Mitch says when Dylan comments that it is. They’re in what’s come to be their corner of the dressing room, getting suited up before practice. Mitch looks more tired than usual, and when Connor asked why, he said his shift had gone a little overtime. That opened the window for Dylan to ask what he was doing on said shift. “It’s not like I’m a doctor,” Mitch continues, “I didn’t have to go to school for a million years to do it.”

“Dude,” Dylan says, “I was a Liberal Arts major. I don’t think you can get less cool than that.”

“You did history and culture and stuff, it’s cool,” Connor interjects, ever the loyal boyfriend that Dylan loves.

“Shut up, Mr. Lawyer,” Dylan says to him. He turns back to Mitch. “You _save lives_ , dude. You’re cool. Don’t argue with me.”

“Okay,” Mitch says, amused. “I won’t.”

Practice goes as well as it ever does, which is to say pretty good. The team is gelling well, and everyone is excited for their first game next week. For all Dylan doesn’t take rec league hockey as seriously as, say, Connor does, he’s still a competitive son of a bitch, and his favourite parts of each week have quickly become talking shop with Connor on the drive home from hockey. That’s not exactly the ‘meeting friends’ goal they were going for, but Dylan is never going to apologize for being obsessed with his boyfriend. Besides, it’s not like they haven’t made any friends at all, and it’s not at all unwelcome when Mitch calls for them to wait for him as they’re heading out of the arena. 

“Hey, thanks,” he says when he’s caught up. He just booked it down the hallway, and he’s not even winded. His hair is perfectly in place. Dylan despairs. 

“No problem,” Connor says. “What’s up?” 

“I wanted to ask you two a question,” Mitch says. “Or, actually, it’s more of a favour.” 

“Okay, shoot,” Dylan says.

“Well, you’re both really good out there—” He gestures in the direction of the ice, and Dylan takes the opportunity to interject with, “You too, bud.” He smirks at Mitch.

Mitch smirks right back. “Thanks. So, what I was wondering is if you’d like to help me out with my kids? I do my best with them, of course, but it’s always good to have some extra hands and expertise, especially at the beginning of the season.”

Mitch keeps on talking, but Dylan lost the thread of it somewhere around when Mitch said he has _kids_. Dylan can’t stop picturing him doing fatherly things, like reading bedtime stories and holding a toddler’s hands while they slide along the ice on their skates. It’s unbearable. He hopes Connor is paying attention to what Mitch is saying.

“When would you need us?” Connor asks when Mitch stops talking, proving that he is the best of all boyfriends.

“Would next Tuesday at six be okay?” Mitch asks, looking hopeful. “It’s just here.”

Connor looks askance at Dylan, who widens his eyes in an attempt to communicate ‘hell fucking yes, I want to die when I see Mitch the Hot Paramedic’s actual children next Tuesday at six o’clock’. It must work, because Connor looks back at Mitch and nods. 

“I think we should be able to make it,” he says. “Barring any unforeseen circumstances.” 

“Awesome!” Mitch says. “Here, why don’t we trade numbers so I can text you the details and you can let me know if anything comes up.” 

“Sounds good,” Connor says, swapping phones with Mitch.

They swap back and walk out together when they’re done, parting ways in the parking lot. Connor and Dylan wave in response to Mitch’s “See you!” as they’re getting into their car.

“Holy fuck,” Dylan says as soon as the car doors are closed.

“I know,” Connor says, staring blankly at the steering wheel.

“I can’t believe we just learned that not only is hot Mitch a hot paramedic, but he’s, like, married with kids. Could he _be_ any more of a dreamboat?” 

Connor laughs. “A _dreamboat_?” Dylan shoots him a look, and he amends, “Okay, no, you’re right.” He starts the car, though he still seems a little stunned. “You think he’s married? I’ve never seen him wear a ring.” 

“Have you been _looking_?” Dylan asks, fake scandalized, and then doesn’t give Connor time to respond before he says, “Maybe he takes it off for hockey. Lots of guys do. Besides, how could he not be married? He’s hot and perfect.”

“Point,” Connor says. They’re quiet until they get onto the road. At a stop light, Connor says, “Shit, Dylan, how are we gonna do this next Tuesday? I was too distracted to even ask how old these kids are.”

“Probably not that old,” Dylan muses. “Unless he was a teen dad, which is possible, but even then. Doesn’t really matter though, does it? I mean. Hot dad paramedic Mitch.”

“Hot dad paramedic Mitch,” Connor agrees. He sounds every bit as pained, impressed, and slightly turned on as Dylan is. Dylan is so glad they’re going through this together.

 

 

If either Dylan or Connor had checked the arena schedule before going to help Mitch the next Tuesday, they would have seen that the ice time was booked for a team of Mite hockey players. As it is, Dylan threw out the arena schedule one day in the middle of a bored cleaning spree, and they still haven’t bothered to grab a new one.

It doesn't really matter, considering the first thing Connor asks when they meet Mitch behind the bench just before practice is still “Which ones are yours?”, but he likes to think he and Dylan would have figured it out if they’d known the team thing in advance. 

Mitch’s eyebrows furrow at Connor’s question, which is not at all something Connor thinks is cute, because he’s very much in love with Dylan. “What do you mean?” Mitch asks. 

“You know,” Dylan says, “which kids belong to you?”

“Um, all of them?” Mitch says.

Connor and Dylan exchange a very confused look.

“I’m the coach,” Mitch adds, and understanding dawns for all three of them. “Wait, did you—”

“Think you had actual kids of your own?” Dylan fills in, tone dry. “Yeah, we might’ve leapt to that conclusion.” 

Mitch laughs for a good two minutes, during which Connor wishes for the ice to melt, swallow him and Dylan whole, and freeze again. Both of them try to insist it’s not that funny, but Mitch obviously disagrees. 

“No,” Mitch says when he’s recovered. “No, I’d be an awful dad. I’m a passable coach, that’s all.” 

Connor’s only known this guy for just shy of a month, but he highly doubts that Mitch would be an awful father. A glance over at Dylan’s skeptical eyebrows shows that they’re in agreement there. 

Over the course of the next two hours, they learn that Mitch is not just a passable coach at all—he’s an awesome one. He gives them the rundown before they start, handing over a list of drills for them to run through with the whole team while he takes each kid aside for a one-on-one talk to identify their strength and weaknesses. “It’s important to set goals for the season,” he tells them, and Dylan and Connor nod exactly the same way the kids do when he says it to them two minutes later.

The kids all obviously adore Mitch, hanging off his every word, and it’s clear that he adores them right back. He’s exactly the kind of patient, fun, takes-no-shit coach that Connor always liked best when he played as a kid. 

About halfway through practice, Connor happens to glance away from the group of kids at the precise time that Mitch is kneeling down talking to a clearly frustrated and upset kid. It becomes immediately obvious that the upset isn’t due to Mitch—he holds his fist out to bump, and the kid does. The look on Mitch’s face is so soft that Connor thinks he might well just expire right here.

By the time Mitch has seen every individual kid, there’s only fifteen minutes left in practice. Mitch skates over with a huge grin on his face and addresses the group. “Who’s up for some scrimmage?” 

The kids are all ecstatic. Mitch splits them into two groups he clearly already prepared and then assigns one each to Connor and Dylan. “Ready for a little real-time coaching?” he asks. “I’ll ref.” 

“You got it,” Connor says.

“Team Coach Connor is going _down_!” Dylan yells. His kids all loudly agree.

Mites as they are, the kids don’t play all that fast-paced or difficult of a game. Connor certainly doesn’t have the kids’ names and positions memorized, though he does know most of them fairly well. It’s a saving grace that they mostly already know what lines they should be in, so all he has to do is tell them when to sub in. 

Team Coach Connor doesn’t end up going down—they actually win 2-1, thanks to a goal that was so flukey Dylan actually yelled at Mitch that he wanted a coach’s challenge for goalie interference. Mitch just shook his head and yelled back, “The call on the ice stands because I’m in charge.” 

Connor is pretty sure he’s never going to hear the end of it from Dylan, but the whole exchange was cute enough that he doesn’t really care. 

“Thanks for coming,” Mitch tells them earnestly. They’re standing outside the dressing room, where the kids are all loudly getting ready to leave. “It was really good having you here.”

“It was lots of fun,” Connor assures him.

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“You can come back any time,” Mitch says. “I know it can be pretty addicting.”

“Actually,” Connor says, “if you’re not a parent, how’d you get into it, anyway?” He’s genuinely curious—pretty much all his coaches growing up had been parents, including his own father for a while. 

Mitch grins. “Filled in for a buddy of mine who got injured halfway through the season a couple years back and just fell in love with it. Ended up signing up for my own team. It’s just a volunteer thing, but it’s too much fun for me to care.” 

“That’s awesome,” Dylan says. “I bet we’ll be back, huh, Connor?” He nudges Connor with his elbow. 

“Seems likely,” Connor says.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Mitch says, smiling that huge smile of his. “Just let me know.”

“Will do,” Connor says, smiling helplessly back.

 

 

Connor stalks into the dressing room and unceremoniously throws his stick underneath his section of the bench, where it clatters loudly. Behind him, he can hear Dylan telling the team loudly, “Ignore Connor, he always gets bitchy after a bad loss.” 

It’s not an exaggeration, and what just happened _was_ a bad loss. There’s not really any other word for it when your defence completely breaks down and your offence keeps turning over the puck. Connor is well aware that this is just rec league hockey, but he’s never liked to lose under any circumstances. It’s something he’s accepted about himself.

A bunch of the team come around to clap him on the shoulder or fist bump him, telling him they’ll be sure to shape up and/or be less drunk next time. It goes a long way in helping Connor get over himself, but having accepted his nature means he knows he won’t really be able to let it go until he’s had time to stew and talk it out. Dylan is probably bracing himself already.

“Pretty shitty, huh,” Mitch says, sitting in his spot next to Connor. They played on the same line for most of the game, so he knows exactly how much they sucked.

“I’ll say,” Connor agrees. “Eight to two is a fucking wash.”

“Fucking right,” Mitch says. “With that first period, it’s like we wanted to lose.”

Connor snorts. “I think I forgot what playing in the offensive zone is like.”

“We all forgot _how_ , that’s for sure,” Mitch agrees. “Shit, that shift when they scored their second goal?” 

“What a joke,” Connor says. “The turnover in the neutral zone that they turned into the sixth goal, though.”

Mitch is appropriately derisive, and they keep on like that, trading scathing commentary about the shitty parts of the game and theorizing about how they could’ve done better for so long that Dylan has to snap them out of it.

“Earth to Marner and McDavid,” he says loudly. “Nobody cares about our power play, they’ve all gone home to bed.” 

Connor looks around; everyone _has_ cleared out already. Dylan’s hair is wet from the shower, and he usually waits until they’re home to do that. Connor and Mitch are still wearing half their gear.

“Whoops,” Connor says. “Sorry I got you caught up in my shit, Mitch. I get pretty—”

“Nah,” Mitch interrupts. “I’m more intense than I should be, too.”

“A match made in heaven,” Dylan says sarcastically. “But can we get a move on? Seriously, our bed is calling me.”

Connor can tell that Dylan is at least 70% joking, but Mitch looks actually chagrined, moving to get changed. “Sorry,” he says, directing it to both of them.

Connor doesn’t like that look on Mitch at all, and he’s actually been having fun talking to him. “You should be grateful,” Connor says to Dylan. “Mitch just saved you from at least three quarters of my bitching.” 

Dylan laughs. “Only three quarters? Well, fuck. Mitch, you better keep him.”

Mitch immediately cottons on to the joke. “Oh yeah? With your permission, I’ll just take him on back to my place.” 

Mitch’s words in no way make Connor’s mind go to extremely dirty places, because that would be wholly inappropriate. He _does_ find himself wanting to hang out and talk more with Mitch, though, which is probably what inspires him to say, “Maybe we should meet up outside the rink sometime.”

Mitch’s and Dylan’s eyebrows both shoot up. “Like…” Mitch trails off.

“I mean, for coffee or something? We can talk strategy some more.”

“Yeah?” Mitch says cautiously. “When were you thinking?” 

Connor’s mind races. He’s got a pretty busy work week coming up, and he’s not sure what Mitch’s shifts are like, but— “Tomorrow morning?” he asks. “If you’re free?”

“Uh, sure,” Mitch says. He glances at Dylan, then looks back at Connor. “Is your boyfriend coming on this date with us, honey?” 

Connor ignores the burn in his cheeks at the pet name. Dylan snorts. “You mean am I coming to your lame strategy meeting for fucking beer league?” 

Mitch and Connor both stare at him. Connor’s expression is, he hopes, clearly communicating that he will be very upset if Dylan makes him do this alone. He has no idea what Mitch’s expression is saying.

“Okay, yeah,” Dylan says, breaking after thirty seconds. “I’m coming.”

“Sweet,” Mitch says. Connor nods, pleased. 

It doesn’t occur to him until they’ve hammered out the details and Connor’s finally actually getting ready to leave that he and Dylan just officially made plans outside hockey with their first friend. Sure, it’s still hockey-related, but still. Baby steps.

 

 

Mitch checks his hair in the mirror in his car, fixing an out-of-place strand. He picks up his phone and triple checks his texts to see if he’s at the correct Tims location to meet Connor and Dylan. He is. He checks his hair in the mirror again, then tells himself to stop being so fucking stupid and get out of the car.

This is not, he reminds himself as he heads inside the building, a date. This is just coffee with two of his new buddies from his rec hockey team. He doesn’t have to impress them because, for one, they’re dating each other, and for two, they already like him, as evidenced by the fact that they wanted to get coffee at all, even if it is to talk hockey. 

The nervous lump in his throat ten minutes later when he waves for Connor and Dylan to join him at the table he took over is clearly not listening to reason. 

“Hey,” Connor says, sliding into the chair across from Mitch. “You’re early.”

For a moment, Mitch is frozen. Connor is wearing a pristine white dress shirt and dark blue dress pants. There are sunglasses perched in front of his perfect coif of styled back hair. As Mitch stares, he starts rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, teeth digging into his lower lip in concentration. Mitch has never seen him out of hockey gear or sweatpants before. He looks, to put it bluntly, fucking hot.

Mitch tears his eyes away and forces himself to concentrate on what Connor said. It’s ten to nine, the meeting time they agreed on. Fuck, he probably seems like an overeager, friendless loser, being here already, and he’s not even _half_ as nicely dressed as Connor. Then again—”You, too,” he says. 

Connor grins and shrugs. “I like to be punctual,” he says.

“And I hate mornings,” Dylan says. Mitch looks over at him and then wishes he hadn’t. Dylan is dressed much more simply in a t-shirt and jeans, but that just means there’s nothing to distract from how attractive Dylan is all on his own. Mitch has never noticed the way Dylan’s bangs are slightly too long, soft where they fall over his forehead. “I’m going to get coffee,” Dylan continues. “Your usual?” 

“Yeah, thanks, babe,” Connor says. 

The feelings Mitch gets when he sees them smile at each other clearly aren’t listening to reason either. _Practically married_ , he reminds himself sternly. _Stop it_.

“What are you doing?” Connor asks, gesturing to the notebook Mitch has open in front of him. He looks down at it almost in surprise. He hadn’t gotten anything done before Dylan and Connor showed up.

“Oh, just lines,” Mitch says. “Thinking about shifting the kids around next game.”

Connor is pulling the notebook toward himself practically before Mitch finishes his sentence. “Can I see?” he asks unnecessarily. “I’m no expert, but…”

“No, go ahead,” Mitch says.

Connor points at names and asks for clarification on who they are using remarkably specific—and mostly accurate—criteria. Once he seems to be sure of all the names, which happens quickly, he has pretty good insight, and he listens carefully when Mitch talks about how they’ve been doing. It’s really nice—Mitch has friends who will talk to him about coaching, of course, but he’s never had anyone seem to care quite this much.

“What’s up?” Dylan asks when he comes back with the coffee and sits down next to Connor.

“Helping Mitch out with some stuff for his team,” Connor says.

“He’s got a crazy memory,” Mitch says. “Remembered pretty much all the kids.” 

“Yeah, I’ve forgotten literally all those kids’ names already,” Dylan says. He elbows Connor. “Stop trying to be impressive.”

“I’m not,” Connor protests, but the slight smirk around the top of his coffee as he takes a sip makes Mitch suspect it’s a lie. If it is, Connor is definitely succeeding. Mitch looks away, fiddling with his own coffee cup. 

They lapse into the kind of uncertain silence Mitch can’t stand—well, he can’t really stand any silence, but for sure not this one. He does what he always does in this situation, which is say the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you always look so dressed up?” 

Connor blinks in surprise, and Dylan starts laughing.

“I mean, you don’t at hockey, but like—”

“No, Connor pretty much operates in extremes,” Dylan says. “Ever since we started university, his wardrobe has slowly been whittling itself down to suits and t-shirts with holes. He’s got nothing in between.” 

“Sadly true,” Connor says wryly. “But at least I have some style, unlike this guy.” He gestures at Dylan.

“Sure, whatever you want to tell yourself,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes.

“You look good,” Mitch says. He sounds too sincere to his own ears, and when Connor smiles at him, he has to look away again. “So, uh,” he says. “Did you two meet at school? Or?” 

“Oh, do you want to hear our getting together story?” Dylan asks, sounding delighted. “I love telling it.”

“Because he tells it wrong,” Connor says.

“I do not,” Dylan says.

“Let me hear it,” Mitch encourages.

Dylan grins. “Okay, so, no, we didn’t meet at university, if that’s what you meant. We grew up playing in the same hockey leagues, somehow became friends from that, and then I worked my ass off to follow him to his dream of a fancy-ass bilingual education at McGill. I basically harassed him into falling in love with me from there.”

“He didn’t _harass me_ ,” Connor says. “And we actually got together before we started at McGill.”

“Yeah, the summer before, because you were too dumb to realize I meant it when I asked you to prom.”

“ _You_ weren’t clear enough, I thought it was as friends.” Connor huffs and gives Mitch a can-you-believe-this-guy look. Mitch stifles a laugh.

“It’s not my fault you were stupid,” Dylan says.

“It’s not _my_ fault you were shy.”

“Okay, okay,” Mitch says, laughing out loud now. “I think I get the drift. Damn, you guys have been together for, what, five or six years then?” 

“Six,” Connor says. “Thought I’d get tired of this loser, but.” He shrugs.

“Oh, no, how could you ever get tired of that cute face,” Mitch says, teasing to cover up that he actually means it a scary amount.

“That’s what I tell him,” Dylan says, smug. “He’s a lucky guy.”

“You both are,” Mitch says. “Hashtag goals.” He laughs at his own joke, feeling immediately awkward. Thankfully, Connor and Dylan both laugh, too.

“Hey, did you say you grew up here, too?” Dylan asks Mitch. 

“Yeah, in Thornhill,” Mitch says.

“How come we didn’t meet you at all back then?” 

“Oh, that’s a good question,” Connor says. “I’m sure we’d remember if we had.”

Mitch shrugs. “I didn’t play in the serious hockey leagues at all. Lots of my friends did, though. I bet we have some pretty crazy mutuals.”

“Probably,” Connor agrees.

“Why didn’t you play serious hockey?” Dylan asks. “You’re so good I never would’ve guessed.”

“Thanks,” Mitch says. “It was because I played a lot of sports, and when I did focus, it was on volleyball.”

“Volleyball?” Dylan repeats. “Like, the shirtless kind, or wh—” 

Mitch waits, and then says, “No, it was indoors,” when it becomes apparent Dylan’s not going to finish his sentence.

“Hm, that’s a bummer,” Dylan says, noticeably looking Mitch up and down.

Mitch automatically grins the way he always does when he notices someone flirting with him. “I wore knee pads, though,” he says, making the words as suggestive as possible.

“Oh my God,” Dylan says, laughing. His cheeks are the slightest bit of satisfying pink. Connor groans and hides his face with his hands. 

“Sorry,” Mitch says quickly. “I probably shouldn’t flirt with you when your boyfriend is sitting right here.”

Dylan shrugs, and Connor comes out from behind his hands to say, “It’s fine.” 

Mitch feels kind of bad about it anyway, but that’s not enough to make him keep his mouth shut. “Maybe I should just spread the flirting around a bit, eh?” He bats his eyelashes at Connor.

Connor turns even more pink than Dylan. There’s a loaded pause, just long enough for Mitch to consider what might happen in the outlandish world in his head where they take him seriously, and then Connor says, “Why volleyball?” 

“Hm?” Mitch says, then it clicks. “Oh! Because my boyfriend liked it best. I spent most of junior high and high school doing whatever I could to hang out with him more.” 

Connor and Dylan exchange a look Mitch can’t interpret. Dylan picks his coffee up and takes a sip as Connor asks, “What happened to him?”

“My boyfriend?” Mitch asks. “I don’t know, we broke up before college. Wasn’t as meant to be as you two, I guess.”

“His loss,” Dylan says.

Mitch has been over his high school boyfriend for years, so he really doesn’t need the reassurance. He resolutely ignores the warm feeling Dylan’s defensiveness is giving him and puts a hand over his heart. “You say the sweetest things,” he drawls. Dylan laughs.

“What about now?” Connor asks, sitting back in his chair and slowly turning his cup around and around on the table. “Any guy in your life?” 

“Nah, no girl or guy right now,” Mitch says. “Had a few relationships since then, but nothing that’s stuck. I’m cool with it.”

Connor and Dylan nod. Mitch thinks they’re going to lapse into uncomfortable silence again, but then Connor says, “Good. So, uh, about what we’re actually here to talk about…”

“Right,” Mitch says. “I think we left off somewhere in the middle of tearing apart our power play?” 

“You got it,” Connor says grimly.

They talk hockey for a good forty-five minutes before the conversation peters out into silence, this one comfortable, and Dylan says, “We should do this again. Like, maybe make it a thing? Saturday morning debriefs?” 

Mitch honestly can’t think of anything he’d rather spend Saturday mornings doing. He nods and opens his mouth to say—well, not exactly that, but something similar—but Connor beats him to it.

“I thought we were lame for wanting to do it in the first place,” he teases.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I like lame,” he says. His expression as he looks at Connor is immeasurably fond.

Connor smiles back the same warm way. “Good thing.” 

“Mhm,” Dylan agrees, leaning in to peck Connor on the lips.

“You two are so cute,” Mitch says, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in his chest. He tells himself he’s just jealous of their relationship, not of either of them specifically. “It’s a damn shame you’re both taken,” he adds, making sure to sound ten times more joking than he actually feels. It has the desired effect of making Connor and Dylan laugh, at least. 

“Seriously, though,” Dylan says. “Regular Saturday morning coffee?”

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “If you two are in, I’m in.”

“We’re in,” Connor says confidently to punctuate Dylan’s nod. 

 

 

By the middle of December, Dylan and Connor officially don’t have any unpacked boxes left in their house—the two in the office don’t count, as they’ve taken up permanent residence under the desk, where Dylan uses them as a foot rest while he fills out job application after job application. 

Job hunting is never fun, and Dylan is getting to the point where it feels like he might as well give up. He would never do that, because Connor is working longer and longer hours only to come home and do even more work at the kitchen table, and Dylan isn’t going to turn into a deadbeat who doesn’t pull his weight. He knows Connor would never hold it against him if he didn’t want to work, but he _does_. It’s frustrating that he can’t. 

They’ve been making it to every hockey practice and game, even when Dylan has privately thought that Connor looked too tired, but it’s not really a surprise when he calls from work one day and says he’s staying late and there’s no way he’s going to be able to make it to practice that night. 

Dylan stares down at his fuzzy socks and pajama bottoms. Now he doesn’t have to change at all today. He wishes that were a novel concept. “Cool,” he tells Connor. “I’ll order food and save some for you. And I’ll try not to Netflix one of the shows we’re watching together, but you keep falling asleep anyway, so no promises.”

“What?” Connor says, sounding half-distracted already. “No, don’t do that. Go to practice without me.” 

“Oh,” Dylan says. “But…” He trails off. It didn’t really occur to him that he should go to hockey without Connor. “You have the car?” 

“You could get Mitch or someone to come pick you up,” Connor says. “I need you to take notes.”

Dylan huffs. “It’s beer league. There will be no notes to take.” 

“Please?” Connor says, voice sticky sweet. “For me?”

“Ugh,” Dylan says.

“Great,” Connor says, taking it for the agreement that it is. “I gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Dylan says. He stares at his phone for a moment after hanging up, and then he sighs and texts Mitch. 

Dylan’s not stupid. He knows that Connor wanted him to go to practice because he worries that Dylan is spending too much time stuck inside, and that knowledge is only made worse by the fact that it’s true. Hockey _is_ about the only good thing (that isn’t Connor) in Dylan’s life right now, and that hasn’t been true since, like, high school. The throwback to being a teenager fucking sucks. 

Thanks to that hard truth, Dylan is already in a mood by the time Mitch picks him up. He throws a smile at Mitch as he gets into the car anyway.

“Hey!” Mitch says enthusiastically, grinning back at Dylan. “Riding solo today, huh?” 

“Obviously not solo,” Dylan says. “Riding with you.” 

Mitch laughs. “Okay, but I’m no replacement for your other half.” 

Dylan shrugs. Normally after a comment like that, especially accompanied by the suggestive look Mitch gives him, he’d be contemplating all the ways Mitch _could_ be—well, not a replacement, but an addition, maybe. Today, though, he can’t even bring himself to bother. He probably should have just stayed home.

Mitch chatters for the entire drive to the arena, seemingly content for Dylan to only contribute the bare minimum. Once they’re there, Dylan does his best to shake his bad mood, but he keeps catching himself spacing out, thinking about shit like all the ways he’s fucked up every single job application he’s ever filled out and how he’ll probably have to live off Connor’s money for the rest of his life.

“You’re acting weird,” Mitch says. It’s almost the end of practice, and Dylan has spent the last while staring into the middle distance, letting himself be passed over for shift switches during scrimmage. He’s actually kind of impressed that Mitch waited this long to say anything.

“I’m fine,” he says, shrugging. 

“Are you lost without Davo?” Mitch teases. “Do you struggle to function without him at your side?”

Dylan scowls. “It’s not about him not being here,” he says. 

“Okay,” Mitch says easily. “So what is it?” 

“Nothing,” Dylan lies. He stands, making it clear he’s ready for a change, and hits the ice hard when the previous line comes off it. 

Annoyingly, Mitch follows Dylan onto the ice and then back off it, sitting next to Dylan on the bench again. “It’s obviously not nothing,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” 

Dylan shrugs.

“Because we could go out for drinks after this and you could vent,” Mitch offers. “I promise to be on your side if it turns out Connor’s been a dick about something. I’ll call him every name in the book for you, and then I’ll figure out how we’re gonna fix it, because the thought of you two ever not being perfect makes me want to cry.” 

Dylan snorts. “It’s not about Connor,” he says.

“But you’re going to come out for drinks and vent, right?” Mitch persists.

“Fine,” Dylan agrees. “Sure.” 

“Good,” Mitch says, satisfied.

When practice is over, Dylan checks his phone to see a text from Connor letting him know that he’s home. He texts back to say that he’s going out with Mitch, and by the time they’re actually at the random bar Mitch picked, he still hasn’t gotten a response. He takes that to mean Connor was tired enough to fall asleep right away.

It’s fairly late on a weeknight, so the bar is pretty quiet. Mitch and Dylan both get beer and sit at a table close to the bar. “So,” Mitch says when they’re settled, “you gonna spill?” 

Dylan sighs and takes a sip of his beer. “Okay,” he says slowly, trying to decide where to start. “So I got this job at a museum in Montreal, like, right at the end of undergrad. I was recommended by one of my professors and did an interview and everything, and they really liked me, obviously, because I worked there full time while Connor was doing his Master’s, right?”

Mitch nods.

“I had to quit so we could move here for Connor’s job,” Dylan continues. “Which, don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret that at all. I always wanted to come back to the GTA eventually, you know, and it was a really good opportunity for him.”

“But…” 

“But I’m having a shit time trying to find a new job,” Dylan says. “Museum work isn’t all that easy to come by, and I don’t want to settle for anything too shitty or outside my field because I don’t really need to right now? And I know I’m damn lucky to be able to say that, but I also…” He stops himself and makes an apologetic face at Mitch. “You probably weren’t expecting this much whining.”

Mitch shakes his head. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “I totally get it, job hunting is awful.”

“Yeah.” Dylan sighs, staring down at his beer. “It’s just hard, you know? And I… well, I can’t complain to Connor because he already feels guilty that I had to leave my old job, so that… I don’t know, it doesn’t really help.” 

He feels bad saying even a sort of bad word against Connor, but it _is_ making him feel a lot better to put all of this out here. It’s not as if he even thinks it’s at all Connor’s fault. This is all just shitty circumstance. 

“Because you’re used to being able to talk to him,” Mitch says, nodding. 

Dylan nods as well. “And there’s nothing to really say, even if I did want to talk to him,” he says. “I just have to keep doing what I’ve been doing and hope I get somewhere. It just sucks.” 

“I feel you, dude. I’m sorry,” Mitch says. “Do you want potentially bad attempts at advice or just sympathy?” 

Dylan shrugs. “May as well try the advice,” he says. “Can’t hurt.”

“Okay,” Mitch says, looking thoughtful. “You said you had a prof that helped you out before?”

“Yeah,” Dylan confirms. “I asked him for a reference when I left and then emailed him again more recently to see if he has any specific connections here, but he said he’d get back to me and then hasn’t, so that seems to have been a bust.” 

“Damn,” Mitch says. “I assume you aren’t actually fucking up the applying for jobs, so I don’t really have any other bright insight. And the medical field’s not exactly close to anything museum-like, so I can’t help you there. But man, if I could make the perfect job drop into your lap, I so would. ”

Dylan shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Mitch snorts. “Sure, the thought really helps you get a job.”

“Talking out the frustration helps,” Dylan says. “Seriously, thanks.” 

“No big,” Mitch says, shrugging it off. “Anytime.” 

They move on to less heavy topics, shooting the shit for a bit while they finish their beers. By the time Mitch drops Dylan off back at home, he’s feeling better than he has in a few days. He really hadn’t realized how much keeping all his feelings locked up was weighing on him.

The house is dark when Dylan lets himself in, and he does his best to be quiet as he gets ready for bed. When he carefully lifts the covers to get into the bed, though, Connor turns over and whispers blearily, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Dylan whispers back, settling into the bed. 

“Where were you?” Connor mumbles, reaching out to pull Dylan closer.

“Went out with Mitch after practice,” Dylan says, maneuvering his arm underneath and around Connor. “Texted you.”

“Was sleepin’,” Connor dismisses. “That’s nice, what for?” 

“Just talking,” Dylan says, wary of starting to complain all over again, and then he abruptly decides he’s being stupid. Hiding anything from Connor has never ended well for him. “About job hunting sucking, mostly. I was moping.”

Dylan can feel Connor tense a little and then relax again. “Good,” he says. He nuzzles his forehead into Dylan’s shoulder. “Glad you have someone else to talk to.” 

Dylan’s chest feels fit to burst. Any other guy might have felt betrayed by Dylan talking to Mitch and assumed—not entirely incorrectly, as awful as that thought is—that Dylan was on his way to cheating. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand how he got so lucky to have Connor. He drops a kiss on the top of Connor’s head. “Me too,” he says. 

Connor sighs softly and settles against Dylan more, clearly already on his way back to sleep. “I love you,” Dylan says after a moment. 

“Love you, too, Dyls,” Connor murmurs. 

 

 

Between rec hockey and Saturday mornings, Mitch sees a lot of Connor and Dylan. He would never admit it if asked, but coffee with them is easily his favourite thing about every week. He likes them a lot, and he counts himself lucky that, between work and Mites, his life is hectic enough that it’s easy to deliberately not think about just _how_ much and in what way he likes them. 

They don’t meet for coffee for a couple weeks around the holidays because they’re all so busy, and then Mitch picks up an extra shift on the weekend in January. He’s loathe to cancel on Connor and Dylan, but Max is one of Mitch’s best work friends and he needed his shift covered, so Mitch takes it and Max’s promise for a future favour. 

Mitch isn’t expecting anything—he figures, since they don’t have hockey that week, he’ll just see Connor and Dylan the next Saturday and they can catch up then—so when he gets a text from Connor on Tuesday asking if he wants to hang out that evening, he’s completely surprised.

After the initial surprise, his heart immediately sinks in his chest. _Can’t_ , he replies, putting three sad emojis after it. _Mites have got a game._

Connor responds quickly with some sad emojis of his own and an assurance that it’s okay, he and Dylan will catch Mitch on Saturday. Mitch has the strongest urge to text back that he misses them, but he hesitates, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and then decides that would be too much. 

Mitch has always been the kind of guy who tunes everything else out when he's focusing on something, so it's not until halfway through the second period of the game that night that one of his defencemen turns around on the bench and points out Connor and Dylan sitting in the stands. Mitch is so startled that he just stares across the ice for a moment. There's no reason for them to be here except—

Mitch has to put it out of his mind so he can actually coach, but as soon as the game is over and he's supervising the dressing room, one of the kids asks, “Are Coach Connor and Coach Dylan gonna come say hi?” Mitch is surprised all over again, but he recovers quickly and says he’ll go see if he can find them.

It turns out to not be hard. He barely gets two steps away from the dressing room, heading toward the lobby, when he hears Dylan’s voice from behind him. He turns to see them standing on the other side of the dressing room door. Connor’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, but Dylan is waving. 

“What the hell are you two doing here?” Mitch asks, greeting them both with bro-hugs. 

“We were bored,” Connor teases as he slaps Mitch on the back. “Thought we'd come see you in action.” 

Mitch can't help the grin plastered to his face. “That's really cool of you both,” he says. He immediately internally cringes at how dumb he sounds and quickly adds, “Did you want to say hi to the kids?” 

“Sure, if that’s cool,” Dylan says.

“Of course. They asked for you, so,” Mitch says, shrugging. He gestures for Connor and Dylan to go ahead of him, and then yells, “Look who I found!” to the room as he follows them in.

The kids are all pretty excited—they won the game 6-2, so they’re pretty much falling over themselves to ask Connor and Dylan if they saw such-and-such cool thing that happened. Connor and Dylan take it all in stride, handing out high fives and assurances that they _did_ see that goal, and yes, it _was_ awesome.

Mitch usually makes it a point to take the kids out for some kind of treat whenever they play a particularly good game in the interest of team bonding, and he wasn’t going to let this game be any different. When the chatter has mostly died down, he asks the room at large, “Who wants pizza?” 

Every kid’s head snaps up immediately, and there’s a chorus of, “Me!” 

“You guys know the drill,” Mitch says. “Ask your parents and send them to me for directions if they need ‘em.” 

“Are you going to come?” one of the kids asks Connor. 

“Oh, uh,” Connor says, “I mean…” Mitch hides his laugh at Connor’s expression behind his hand; Lucas has a puppy dog face that he _knows_ how to use. 

“Yeah, you and Dylan should come!” Tyson pipes up, and the agreement spreads around the room. Eventually everyone is looking at Connor and Dylan expectantly.

“ _Please_?” Lucas adds, practically batting his eyelashes. Mitch loves that kid. 

“Yeah,” Mitch teases when Connor and Dylan turn to him with save-me expressions, “ _please_?” 

“I’m not sure we have a choice,” Dylan says. He sounds exasperated, but Mitch is pretty sure his smile is betraying him. 

Connor elbows Dylan in the side. “We’d love to come,” he says. 

Mitch tells them where the pizza place they usually go to is and to go ahead since he has to hang out at the arena until all the kids and their parents have left. He’s still kind of stuck on the fact that Connor and Dylan took an evening out of what Mitch knows is their busy lives to come watch the Mites. It was one thing when he asked them to, but when he didn’t even suggest it… Mitch can’t think about it too hard. 

When Mitch finally gets to the pizza place, Connor and Dylan are already sitting at a large table with most of the kids—at opposite ends, for some reason. They’re both talking to different kids, looking totally engrossed in their conversations, and that’s too much for Mitch to even process.

The way they smile at him when he comes over and says hi is on a whole other level. “You made it, good job,” Dylan says. “We were starting to get worried, weren’t we, guys?” 

The kids all nod solemnly, a hilarious contrast to the sarcasm Dylan is clearly going for. 

“We ordered already,” Connor says. “The kids told us what you usually get.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mitch says, and then he narrows his eyes. “And what did they say I usually get?” 

“Oh, they tried to convince us to get all kinds of chocolate things that I’m not even sure this place has, but we made sure to ask their parents to confirm,” Connor says. 

Mitch laughs and sits down at the table next to Dylan. “Good, I wouldn’t want you to get hoodwinked by these little buggers.” 

“Hey, we’re not buggers,” a kid named Blake protests, pouting, and Mitch reaches across the table to mess up his hair. 

“You know I love you guys,” Mitch says reassuringly. Blake ducks away from Mitch’s hand, scowling, which is cute enough that it just serves to make Mitch smile wider. 

“So,” Dylan says, poking Mitch in the shoulder, “good game, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “What’s Connor doing over there?” 

Dylan rolls his eyes. “The kids made us sit far apart so that it would be fair,” he says. “I’m surprised they didn’t tell you where to sit.”

Mitch shrugs. “Clearly I just have more authoritative power,” he says. 

“Sure,” Dylan says skeptically, laughing exactly the way Mitch wanted him to. 

They chat in between kids insisting on telling them stories and, when the pizza comes, between slices. Mitch updates Dylan on how his Christmas went (boring, mostly, if nice), and Dylan tells him about the art of splitting time between his family and Connor’s. Dylan nearly chokes on his pizza when he remembers to tell Mitch that he managed to get a job interview that he thinks is going to go really well because his prof finally got back to him and referred him to the Royal Ontario.

“Which would be _super sick_ to work at,” Dylan says. “Like seriously.” There are practically stars in his eyes, and Mitch has to give in to the urge to hug him in congratulations. Dylan hugs back and then rolls his eyes. “I didn’t _get_ it yet.” 

“Yeah, but they’d be stupid to not hire you,” Mitch says confidently. 

“What’s up?” Connor asks, sliding into the seat across the table.

“You escaped!” Mitch says. “I was just congratulating Dylan on his interview.” 

Connor grins. “Isn’t that the best news? He’s gonna crush it.” 

“No doubt,” Mitch agrees.

“Oh my God, both of you need to stop it,” Dylan says. 

“Never,” Connor says. “Anyway, what have you been talking about while I was trapped way over there? Not that I wasn’t having a good time hearing about grade four drama.” 

“The holidays, mostly,” Mitch says. 

Connor looks weirdly alarmed, and he looks at Dylan. “Did you—”

“No,” Dylan says. 

“What?” Mitch asks, confused. 

“Remember how I said we did crafts at Connor’s?” Dylan asks.

Mitch nods. “That was only like five minutes ago, so.”

“Right, well,” Dylan says, “we made hockey player ornaments, and mine looks pretty much just like you, so we thought we’d give it to you as a present.” 

Connor holds out a small square of bright green and red wrapping paper. “We even wrapped it, though that was kind of pointless since Dylan just said what it is.” 

“Wow, you didn’t have to,” Mitch says, taking the package. He carefully unwraps it to reveal a tiny hockey player made of tiny clothes stuffed with cotton and sewed. He supposes it does kind of have hair like his, though he’s not quite sure why it’s not wearing a helmet. “Wow.”

“Honestly not a big deal,” Dylan says. “A joke, mostly.”

Mitch knows that, but it’s still stupidly nice and thoughtful. “What did Connor’s look like?” he asks. 

“A hot mess,” Dylan says immediately. “Like, a beetle on skates, maybe. Gruesome stuff.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Connor protests. “It definitely looked like a person.” 

“You just keep telling yourself that,” Dylan says.

“I want to see that, beetle or not,” Mitch says. “Not gonna lie, I’m kind of disappointed not to have the matching set.” 

Both Connor and Dylan laugh. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” Dylan says. 

“See that you do,” Mitch says, grinning. 

Just then, a couple of the parents come up to thank Mitch and tell him that they’re heading out. Mitch immediately stands, switching to coach mode and thanking them for coming. “See you at practice,” he says, getting a wave for his trouble. He looks back at Connor and Dylan and says, “I’m gonna go see about paying while I’m up.”

“Oh,” Connor says, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Mitch frowns. “You didn’t pay for it, did you?” 

Connor shrugs. “Might have,” he says. “Just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You… you didn’t have to do that,” Mitch says. 

“We know we didn’t _have to_. Sit down and accept the gift,” Dylan says, tugging on Mitch’s hoodie. Mitch obeys, a little stunned.

The thing is—all the things Connor and Dylan did today: showing up at his Mites game, coming out for pizza after, insisting on paying for it, bringing him a Christmas gift, chatting and smiling at Mitch like he’s something special… all of those things are what Mitch would picture the perfect boyfriend doing. It doesn’t seem fair at all that he’s got _two_ men doing these things for him, and he can’t have either of them because they already have each other. 

In general, Mitch tries not to let much get him down. He prides himself on being a go-with-the-flow kind of dude, someone who only swims against the tide when he’s decided there’s somewhere he personally really wants to go. The problem is that being with Connor and Dylan is a place he absolutely does want to go, but he can’t let himself do that. He can’t get in the middle of something that’s already perfect and fuck it up. 

“You’re quiet,” Dylan says, nudging Mitch in the ribs. “Sorry if we overstepped.” 

Mitch is pretty sure he’s only not said anything for about two minutes, but he supposes Dylan is right anyway. That Dylan is so attentive to him only makes Mitch feel worse. He shrugs. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “Just. Thanks for coming out. It was really great to see you.” 

“Nice to see you, too,” Dylan says. “We still on for Saturday?” 

“Of course,” Mitch says. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good,” Dylan says, glancing across the table at Connor. “‘Cause neither would we.” 

 

 

Dylan calls Connor at work when he gets the job at the Royal Ontario Museum and rambles happily down the line at him for a good five minutes. Connor should be working, he’s got a case going to trial soon, but he’s so happy for Dylan that he doesn’t even care. It’s a just-above-entry-level type of job in collections, nothing too huge, but it’s the foot in the door that Dylan’s been waiting for. 

After months of quiet stress and frustration, this kind of pay off is something special. Connor wishes he had the time to take Dylan on a stupidly extravagant date to congratulate him, but it’s all he can do to stay awake for a few hours after getting home from work late every day. He hasn’t even had time for hockey in two weeks. He settles with rewarding Dylan with enthusiastic sex before passing out. He’s pretty sure Dylan gets the message. 

Dylan’s work orientation ends up being on a Saturday morning, but Connor doesn’t even consider cancelling on Mitch—tons of hours of overtime logged or not, Connor is getting up to go for coffee. Dylan doesn’t question him, just wakes him up and bundles him into the car so he can drop him off on his way to work, which Connor deeply appreciates.

Connor’s early, but Mitch is earlier, just like always. Connor practically flops into the chair across from Mitch, fumbling with the zipper on his winter coat. “Hey,” he says.

“G’morning,” Mitch says. “How are…” He trails off, looking Connor up and down. “You look exhausted, dude.”

Connor knows. He no longer remembers what he looks like without dark circles under his eyes or how it feels to sleep soundly for enough hours to wake up feeling rested. “I kind of am,” he admits. “Been working serious overtime on this case.”

“What the fuck, you should have cancelled and got some sleep, bud,” Mitch says, frowning. “I would’ve understood.” 

Connor shakes his head. “No way,” he says. “Other than Dylan’s job, this is pretty much the one thing I’ve been excited about all week.” 

Mitch doesn’t say anything for long enough that Connor wonders if he said something wrong. He looks down at the top of his coffee cup, then back up at Connor. “Aw, Davo,” he positively coos. “You’re so sweet.”

Connor is pretty sure he blushes. He knows he does every time Mitch looks at him like that, because Dylan has teased him for it on multiple occasions—even though Dylan doesn’t have a leg to stand on where blushing around Mitch is concerned. He shrugs it off and stands. “I’m going to get coffee,” he says, “and when I get back you can update me on how the team is doing. Both ours and your kids.”

“You got it,” Mitch agrees.

They chat for a bit once Connor has his coffee, starting with hockey and then branching off to other topics like usual. Mitch cuts the conversation short a little bit earlier than usual, saying he has somewhere to be for lunch, and Connor doesn’t question it. He asks if Mitch has time to drive him home, and Mitch readily agrees.

“Dude,” he says right after Connor yawns as he’s getting in the car, “you gotta promise me you’ll take a nap some time today.”

Connor laughs. “Yeah, okay,” he says, ignoring the fact that he’d been planning on getting into some of the paperwork he brought home.

He’s confident that Mitch knows the way, so he’s content to let his mind wander as they drive. Mitch starts talking about something, but Connor didn’t quite catch the beginning of it, so he’s mostly just listening to the sound of Mitch’s voice and making humming noises every so often.

The next thing he knows, he’s blinking awake in a quiet, unmoving car. He looks around in confusion, and his gaze settles on Mitch sitting in the driver’s seat, looking at his phone. His first thought is that Mitch looks good with the light framing him like that, and his second thought is _fuck_. “What the fuck?” he mumbles.

Mitch looks up. “Oh, hey, sleepyhead,” he says. 

Connor squints at the clock on the dashboard. “How long was I out?” 

“Probably not long enough,” Mitch says. “You fell asleep like halfway here, and we’ve been sitting here for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes?”

“Oh my God, why didn’t you wake me up? Don’t you have lunch plans?” 

Mitch shrugs. “You _really_ looked like you needed it,” he says. “I actually, uh, made up the lunch thing to get you to go home earlier. I was afraid you’d try and hang out for hours.”

Connor feels simultaneously awful for falling asleep in the car and extremely touched by Mitch’s thoughtfulness. He probably _would_ have tried to hang out for hours. He’s missed hanging out with Mitch lately; sometimes it feels like he can never get enough of him, which is the kind of scary thought Connor tries not to let himself have. 

“Well,” he says, “thanks. I appreciate it.” 

“No sweat,” Mitch says. “Go inside and sleep some more, huh?” 

Connor laughs. “Yeah, I might actually do that.” 

He gets out of the car and waves to Mitch as he drives off. He figures he actually will go back to sleep, but even as he’s lying down in bed, he feels like he shouldn’t be and knows that he’ll be up and working again in ten minutes. It looks like the only decent sleep he’ll have gotten all week will have been in the passenger seat of Mitch’s car. Connor immediately decides to put that on the list of things he doesn’t think too hard about. 

 

 

Over the next few weeks, things start to settle back down. Dylan gets into the swing of his new job, and Connor’s workload scales itself back to more manageable levels. That leaves more time for things outside of work, hockey, and Saturday morning coffee, which is why they make plans to catch an early evening movie with Mitch on a Wednesday. 

Connor doesn’t know if fate just has something against all three of them being able to hang out at the same time outside hockey and coffee, but it kind of seems that way when Dylan calls to say he’s staying late at work. 

“They recruited me for helping with exhibit set-up,” Dylan explains. “And I’m trying my best to earn as many good employee points as I can, so I didn’t want to say no.”

“Of course not, gotta earn that eventual promotion,” Connor says. “Do you want me to let Mitch know we need a raincheck?” 

“No, that’s okay,” Dylan says. “Go without me, we can catch a different one another time.”

“If you’re sure.”

Dylan scoffs into the phone. “I’m sure. Have fun, babe.” 

“Love you,” Connor replies before hanging up. He sighs and looks down at the work he’d been poking at while waiting for Dylan to get home. They were planning to drive over to the movie theatre together, so Connor unlocks his phone again to call Mitch and get him to pick him up instead. 

Mitch sounds disappointed that Dylan won’t be coming, but he agrees easily to come get Connor. Connor figures he’ll just keep chipping away at his work while he waits, which turns out to be a mistake, because he finds a lead in a file he’s reading and is knee deep in following its thread by the time Mitch knocks on the door. 

He drags himself away from the dining room table, a pen still in his mouth, and opens the door. “Hi, Mitch,” he says around the pen, then takes it out. “Come in for a minute, sorry, do you mind waiting? I just found this thing for work, and I gotta—” He makes a vague gesture, already heading back toward the table. 

“No problem,” Mitch says. “I’ll sit.”

“Yes, thank you,” Connor mumbles, sitting and reading again.

By the time Connor’s found what he was looking for and scrawled enough notes that he’s sure he’ll be able to return to the same train of thought he’s been on, it’s been just over ten minutes. He and Mitch need to leave right away if they’re going to make the movie, and Connor hurries to tell him as much. 

He stops short just as he steps into the living room, his words dying in his mouth. Mitch is asleep on the couch, slumped over the arm of it in a position that can’t at all be comfortable. He’s thrown his coat over the back of the couch and taken off his boots to put his feet up. He’s wearing bright pink socks. Connor lets himself look for a second, cataloguing the slight part of Mitch’s lips and the fan of his eyelashes against his cheek, and then goes over to shake his shoulder gently. 

“Mitch,” he says gently. “Hey, Mitch.” 

Mitch wakes up abruptly, sitting up straight so fast that Connor has to jump out of the way. “Shit, did I—fuck,” Mitch says. “Are we late?” 

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere,” Connor says. Now that he’s actually looking at Mitch, he can tell that he’s probably as exhausted as Connor was at coffee a few weeks ago, if not more so. His eyes are bloodshot, and he still seems like he’s half-asleep. “Did something happen?”

“Huge collision on the 401,” Mitch explains. “Happened near the end of my shift, so my shift suddenly got longer. Only had time for a nap before I came over here.” 

Connor shakes his head. “No way are we going to a movie, then,” he decides. “You’ll be asleep in the theatre, it’ll be a waste.” 

Mitch yawns as if to prove Connor’s statement. “I’ll just head home,” he says, standing up.

“Nuh uh,” Connor says, grabbing for Mitch’s arm when he sways on his feet a bit. “We’re not having _you_ be a part of the next car accident. I’m taking you to bed.”

Mitch is leaning against Connor, letting himself be guided down the hallway, but he somehow still finds the energy to bat his eyelashes at Connor and say, “Really? With Stromer out of the house?” 

“You hush,” Connor says, depositing Mitch on the bed. Mitch tries to get up, but Connor puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“You really don’t have to do this,” Mitch argues. 

“Think of it as returning the favour,” Connor says. “Come on, get under the covers, go to sleep.” 

Mitch opens his mouth, probably to argue again, but ends up yawning instead. “Okay,” he mutters. “Fine, you win.” 

Connor watches to make sure Mitch actually does get into the bed, as if he thinks Mitch is going to bolt for the door as soon as Connor turns his back, and severely regrets it when he watches Mitch sigh and nuzzle his face into Dylan’s pillow.

“Okaysleeptight,” Connor says all in a rush, and then he practically runs out of the room. 

He texts Dylan immediately, because he refuses to deal with this on his own. He should have just told Mitch to go back to sleep in a better position on the couch. _I fucked up_ , he types. _Mitch is IN OUR BED_.

Dylan doesn’t respond, of course, because he’s doing his job. Connor follows up the text with an actual explanation of how Mitch got in their bed, just in case Dylan thinks something untoward is happening, and then goes back to doing work instead of letting himself spiral some more.

It’s an hour and change before Dylan gets home. Connor hears him before he sees him, and he doesn’t come into the dining room for longer than it would take if he wasn’t detouring. Sure enough, when Dylan does appear, he looks kind of stunned. “Mitch is _sleeping in our bed_ ,” he whispers, “and he’s _really cute_.” 

“I _know_ ,” Connor whispers back. He makes a face. “Why are we whispering?”

Dylan sits down in one of the other chairs. “I don’t know, to preserve the peace?” he says at a slightly louder volume. “I know you told me, but texts really didn’t prepare me for…” He gestures in the direction of the bedroom, at a loss.

Connor nods sincerely. “He cuddled your pillow,” he says.

“He was cuddling _yours_ when I looked just now,” Dylan says. 

They just look at each other for a long moment. In the same way Connor knows when Dylan needs a hug or food or more sleep, he knows that the way Dylan is biting his lower lip nervously and carefully not looking away means he feels guilty. Connor knows what Dylan feels guilty about in the same way he knows that Dylan loves him—because he feels exactly the same way. 

Connor offers Dylan his hand, and Dylan immediately takes it, resting their clasped hands on the table between them. He smiles at Connor, rolling his eyes a little, and Connor smiles back. 

 

 

Mitch wakes up slowly, surfacing from a dream he forgets as soon as he opens his eyes. He’s confused for a moment, and then he sits up and gets a look at his surroundings. It’s dark, so it’s hard to see, but he recognizes it, and everything comes flooding back—the pile-up on the 401, the overtime, his attempt at a nap that didn’t stop him from falling asleep on the couch, Connor leading him down the hallway to his and Dylan’s bedroom…

 _Holy shit_. Mitch flops back down onto the pillows smushed up underneath him, then changes his mind and gets up before he can think more about being in Dylan and Connor’s bed. He must have been out for a while; there’s not even a trace of light outside—not that that means much in February, when night still comes on fast, but he also feels significantly less exhausted.

Mitch heads toward the only lights that are on, squinting in the dark so he doesn’t trip over anything. When he gets to the doorway of the lit room, he hesitates.

Connor and Dylan are sitting at the kitchen table. Connor has papers spread out in front of him, and he’s scribbling on one of them, a red pen stuck sideways in his mouth. Mitch’s gaze gets stuck on his shirt sleeves being rolled up to his elbows and the way his hair has made its way out of his usual style—thanks to Connor running his hands through it, Mitch realizes when Connor does exactly that. 

From this angle, Mitch can see that Dylan’s legs are propped in Connor’s lap, and he’s leaning back in his chair as he reads a book. Mitch watches as his forehead crinkles and he flips the page, totally engrossed in whatever it is. 

It’s the perfect scene of domesticity, an easy comfort in the air, and Mitch feels privileged to witness it. That lasts long enough to turn to feeling kind of creepy, but by then he can’t bring himself to interrupt. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to, because Dylan looks up and sees him. “You’re up,” he says. Connor looks up at Dylan’s words, and then they’re both looking at him. The quiet moment is undoubtedly broken. Mitch shifts uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” he says, looking away and reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. “Thanks for…” He waves his hand in a way that he hopes gets his point across. 

“Did you sleep well?” Connor asks, endearingly sincere.

“Oh, yeah. I think I’m well-rested enough to not crash on the way home, so…” He starts to edge away from the doorway. 

“Wait,” Connor says, “are you sure you don’t want to stay for a bit?” 

Mitch intends to say something about not wanting to interrupt their domestic paradise, much as he’d like to, but Dylan scoffs before he can. “You’ve gotta be hungry,” he says, “and I was just thinking about what to make for supper. You can help me cook.” 

“Um…” Mitch says. Now that Dylan’s mentioned it, Mitch realizes that he really is hungry—not that surprising, considering he didn’t eat in between his nap and coming over here. He was thinking he’d get food at the movie. “What time is it?” 

“Just after seven,” Dylan says. “Come on, I promise I’m a good cook.” 

As much as Mitch didn’t want to interrupt, he wants even less to turn the expectant looks on Connor’s and Dylan’s faces into disappointment. “Okay,” he says, stepping the rest of the way into the kitchen, “what are we making?” 

Dylan hums thoughtfully, sticking a bookmark in his book and putting it down on the table before standing to go over to the fridge. “Uh,” he says, surveying the contents, “we’re pretty well-stocked, I dunno. What kind of stuff do you like?” 

“Okay, full disclosure,” Mitch says, “I should have asked what are _you_ making, because I really can’t cook at all.” 

Dylan laughs. “How about, um… stir fry? You can just chop shit, then.” 

Mitch shrugs. “Sure,” he says. 

“In any case,” Dylan says, taking things out of the fridge and putting them on the counter, “you can’t be as bad at it as Connor. He can’t even boil water.” 

“That’s unfortunately true,” Connor says from the table.

Mitch gives Connor a look of empathy. “I once almost set the kitchen on fire trying to make grilled cheese.”

Connor laughs, and Dylan shakes his head. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I’m definitely keeping you away from anything to do with heat.” 

“Yes, sir,” Mitch says cheerfully.

Dylan gets a cutting board and a knife and hands them to Mitch, who finds a free spot on the counter to put them down. Dylan transfers a bunch of packages of veggies to behind the cutting board and says, “There, chop that up. I’ll do the chicken, is that cool? Anything you’re allergic to?” 

“No, nothing. Go for it,” Mitch says. He takes stock of his various veggie options, pretty sure that Dylan doesn’t really understand just how awful Mitch is at this. He glances at Connor only to see him smirking, makes a face at him, and then picks up a paper bag and looks into it with resolve. Mushrooms, okay. He can chop mushrooms. 

After a fairly successful bout of mushroom slicing, during which he kept asking Dylan if there were enough and kept being told no, Mitch struggles through figuring out how to chop a bell pepper effectively, which is apparently harder than he thought.

“Just pull the core out like this!” Dylan says, exasperated, working some sort of black magic on the pepper and then handing it back.

“I have no idea what you just did,” Mitch says. He continues on how he has been, because at least it gets it done. He doesn’t have to be a kitchen wizard.

Halfway through the second pepper, Dylan tries to reach around him and snag a piece. Mitch smacks his hand. “Hey! I’m not cutting more of this than I have to. I might lose a finger.” 

Dylan makes an adorable pouting face at Mitch, and Mitch only holds out for a moment before his resolve breaks and he gives Dylan a piece of pepper. He’s rewarded with a huge smile from Dylan and Connor saying, “Hey, what about me?” 

“What about you? You’re not even helping cook, you can wait,” Dylan tells him.

Mitch waits until Dylan is back on the other side of the kitchen, then motions for Connor to come over to him. Connor does, looking curious. Mitch offers him the knife and a slightly too big piece of pepper. “Cut this in half,” he says. 

Connor does so, then looks askance at Mitch. Mitch picks up a piece of pepper and gives it to Connor. “There, you helped.”

Connor laughs. “Thanks,” he says. 

“In fact…” Mitch collects a small bundle of already cut peppers and asks Connor to get him a small plate to put them on. “For a snack,” he explains.

Connor smiles and does so, taking his plate back to the table. When Mitch looks across the kitchen, Dylan is watching them. “Thought you weren’t cutting more than you have to,” he says when he sees Mitch looking. 

Mitch shrugs. “Worthy cause,” he says, shooting an obvious wink in Connor’s direction. Both Connor and Dylan look away delightfully quickly. 

After Mitch is done cutting up the pepper, he utterly decimates some broccoli, succeeding mostly in getting tiny florets everywhere. 

“This is impressive,” Dylan tells him.

“I told you I suck,” Mitch says. He picks up his last item, an onion, and eyes it suspiciously. “How do I…”

“Take all the papery bits off,” Dylan says, “then cut off the ends, then in half.”

That much is simple enough, but Mitch knows he’s going for small bits and has no idea how you go from a sphere to that. He looks over at Dylan, but he’s attending the chicken in the pan. Mitch frowns, then just goes for it.

It doesn’t work nearly as well as Mitch wants it to. It keeps falling apart and he can’t properly hold it together to cut it, and on top of that his eyes are watering so much he can’t see. He makes an involuntary frustrated noise and a moment later, Dylan is peering over his shoulder and asking, “What are you doing? That’s the wrong direction.”

Mitch freezes, somewhat out of fear he fucked it up beyond repair, but mostly because he can feel Dylan nearly pressed up against him. “Um?” he manages.

“I mean, you can do that, but it’s easier if…” Dylan reaches around Mitch and takes his hands, guiding them into the right positions. “This way, see?” he asks, his breath ghosting against Mitch’s cheek.

It’s all Mitch can do not to straight up shiver. He swallows hard and nods. 

He thinks Dylan will move away again, but he appears to be waiting for Mitch to prove that he does, in fact, see. Mitch is a bit distracted by wondering if Connor is watching and maybe even enjoying the visual this is providing, but he manages to keep cutting the onion. By the grace of some higher power, he doesn’t cut his fingers off, and Dylan nods approvingly. 

It seems the torture isn’t over, though, because Dylan takes it upon himself to help Mitch turn the onion and cut it into small pieces from the other direction. Mitch must lose his head entirely when Dylan touches his hands again, because he blurts out, “You smell good. Oh, fuck, did I say that out loud? Whatever, it’s true. Is that a… cologne?” 

Mitch does not at all think his recovery was smooth, but Dylan just laughs. “Uh, maybe? I dunno.” 

“Oh,” Mitch says weakly. Thankfully, Dylan moves away, and Mitch is left to cut onions and cry in peace.

Once he’s done that, Dylan takes everything and starts putting it in the pan. Mitch is entirely too impressed with his ability to dump it all in quickly without getting it everywhere. 

“I’m gonna make sauce now,” Dylan tells him, “and you’re not helping with it, because it’s an art.”

“And I’m no painter,” Mitch says solemnly. Dylan snorts, but he doesn’t refute it.

Mitch leans against the counter and just watches while Dylan bustles around the kitchen doing things. He’s clearly practiced at this, not hesitating at all, and when Mitch asks, he says that this is one of Connor’s favourites, so he makes it a lot. 

“You’re such a prize boyfriend,” Mitch coos instead of letting himself sink to the floor in despair that he will never find a Dylan for himself. 

Dylan blushes, which is satisfying but ultimately bad for Mitch’s health, and he scrambles to keep up the conversation. “What’s that book you were reading about?” he asks.

It’s a mistake. Dylan positively lights up and starts telling Mitch all about ninth century Islamic art, of all things. It turns out that Dylan is very passionate about how different cultures recorded their values in their art, and how technically everything is art when you look at it from the right angle, and thus everything has value instilled in it. Mitch nods along, only taking in maybe half of what Dylan is saying in favour of committing to memory one hundred percent of what enthusiastic Dylan looks like.

By the time the food is ready and the table is set (courtesy of Connor), Mitch feels well and truly fucked. He’s sitting at the table with two guys who are infinitely smarter and more successful than him, and he’s not even jealous of that. Instead, he’s jealous of the way Dylan sits down and immediately stretches his legs out to rest his feet on top of Connor’s, easy and familiar. 

“Are you guys playing the married version of footsie?” Mitch teases.

“Yeah, and I’ve won,” Dylan says immediately, grinning devilishly at Connor. Connor scoffs and rolls his eyes, but his expression turns warm as soon as Dylan glances away. They’re so in love it makes Mitch want to either throw up or cry for three days straight. Maybe both. 

It might be okay if Mitch was just jealous of the concept of their love, but he knows himself well enough to be sure that it’s not just that. He’s jealous of both of them; he wants to carve out a spot in their relationship for himself. It’s ridiculously selfish and entirely unrealistic. Not for the first time, contemplating the idea of fucking something up between Connor and Dylan leaves Mitch feeling sick enough to almost lose his appetite.

He’s careful not to let it show, eating everything on his plate and complimenting Dylan’s cooking (and his own chopping skills) copiously. He even makes sure to compliment Connor on being so good at watching, flirty tone turned up to maximum. As a coping mechanism, making everyone else as uncomfortable as he is is remarkably effective.

Mitch helps clear the table when they’re done, but when Connor and Dylan ask if he wants to stay and watch a movie or something, he shakes his head. He can just picture it—Connor and Dylan putting on a movie just to fall asleep curled up together on the couch. He’s not about to actually witness that; he’s had quite enough torture for today. It’s time to go home, mope for a bit, and then sleep this shit off. 

 

 

“So, Mitch,” Dylan says, “I have a proposition for you.”

It’s a Saturday morning in late March, and they’ve picked a table at Tims right in the sun so they can soak up some of that hell-yes-it’s-finally-spring weather without actually sitting outside and freezing. Connor knows exactly what Dylan’s proposition is, and he has to resist the urge to put a hand over Dylan’s mouth. He shakes his head instead. 

“No, I told you, it’s fine,” he says. “Ignore him, Mitch.”

Mitch looks amused and a little confused. “I dunno, I think I want to hear this,” he says. 

“You do,” Dylan confirms. “The museum is having a spring gala in one of our new galleries, a charity thing, you know? And I want Connor to come so I can show him off to my coworkers, but I have to work during it, so it’s gonna be pretty boring for him.” 

Mitch nods understandingly. “I can imagine,” he says.

“I told him it’s _fine_ ,” Connor says, exasperated. “I don’t mind going at all.” 

“I know you don’t,” Dylan says, patting Connor’s knee. “So that’s why this request is totally no strings attached,” he directs at Mitch. “Come to the gala and entertain Connor while I’m busy. I promise it’s for a good cause. And the gala is pretty worthwhile too.” 

Mitch laughs. “When is it? If I’m not busy I’d love to come.” 

Dylan grins triumphantly. “Tuesday after next?” 

Mitch gets out his phone, presumably checking his calendar, and Connor takes the opportunity to glare at Dylan while Mitch isn’t watching. Dylan shrugs at him, feigning innocence, and Connor narrows his eyes. 

When Dylan first told Connor about the event, it took considerable amounts of repeating himself for Connor to convince Dylan that he wouldn’t miss it for anything, boring or not. Connor’s still not sure Dylan _is_ convinced, and he definitely hasn’t let the idea of Mitch coming go. He made a comment the night before about wanting to see Mitch in black tie, and it almost had Connor agreeing before he actually thought about it.

It’s not that Connor wouldn’t enjoy Mitch’s company, it’s that he always enjoys Mitch’s company too much. Dylan might think the flirting they’ve all been doing is harmless, but the more Connor thinks about it, the more convinced he is that all that awaits them down that road is a mess they won’t be able to clean up. He and Dylan have always been solid on their own, and Mitch deserves more than being reduced to their prop. 

Connor’s glare can’t communicate all of that and he’s not going to say it in front of Mitch, so after a moment he looks away from Dylan and takes a sip of his coffee, staring out the window. 

“Looks like I’m free,” Mitch says. When Connor turns back to the table, he sees that Mitch is looking warily between him and Dylan. “But, uh… you guys seem tense? Is this a sore subject? Should I not go?” 

“No, it’s not you,” Connor says. He hesitates, then goes with part of the truth and says, “I just hate when he acts like I need incentive to go to his stuff.” 

“Aw, you’re a good boyfriend,” Mitch says.

Dylan makes an indignant noise. “No one said he wasn’t!” he protests. “Don’t play the martyr, Connor. You _know_ you’ll be bored out of your mind if Mitch doesn’t come.” 

“And I would like to, honestly,” Mitch says. 

Connor huffs. “It’s black tie,” he tells him in a last-ditch effort to get him to change his mind.

Mitch seems to hesitate for a moment, and Connor thinks maybe he actually succeeded, but then Mitch grins and says, “So I get to see you _both_ cleaned up nice? I’ll have the hottest dates in the room. I hope you’re ready to catch me when I swoon.” 

Dylan laughs, and Connor can’t help snorting as well. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea that Mitch is calling them his _dates_ , no matter how much he’s probably joking, but at least if this goes badly, Connor will know he tried to stop it. 

 

 

Mitch picks Connor up on the night of the charity gala because Dylan has gone ahead in their car to help set up. Sitting on the couch in his tuxedo while he waits makes Connor feel like a kid on prom night—which is dumb, because _Dylan_ was his prom date. He would never have wanted anyone else then, and he doesn’t now, either.

The way his heart catches in his throat when he opens the door to reveal Mitch betrays his half-lie. Of course Mitch cleans up incredibly well, looking the very definition of dashing in his crisp tux with his hair styled back. Neither of them say hi for a beat too long, just looking at each other, and then both speak at once. They end up laughing and rolling their eyes at each other.

“You ready to go?” Mitch asks. 

“I think so,” Connor says, double checking his pockets for his wallet, phone, and keys. “Yep, all set.” When he makes to step out the door, Mitch stops him with a gentle touch to his shoulder. 

“Your tie’s crooked,” Mitch says, stepping closer and reaching to fix it. Connor stands perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe with Mitch so close to him. Mitch looks up from the tie, his eyes meeting Connor’s, and Connor can’t even remember what breathing _is_ anymore. 

The moment stretches impossibly long before Mitch drops his gaze and licks his lips as he runs a flat hand over Connor’s tie. He clears his throat and steps back. “There,” he says. “Now you’re beautiful again. The tie was really bringing you down.” 

“Yours is perfect,” Connor says stupidly, and Mitch laughs warmly. 

“Well, of course it is,” he jokes. “When don’t I look perfect?” 

Connor can’t think of a response to that which isn’t profuse agreement, so he just laughs as well and doesn’t say anything at all. 

Dylan warned them not to be too early, but Connor hates being late, so he still asked Mitch to come in time so they have a bit of breathing room before the formal welcome announcement. That has the added benefit of meaning the gallery isn’t absolutely packed when they arrive, and they’re able to spot Dylan from across the room. Connor knows the exact moment Mitch sees him, because he stops walking and makes the smallest gasping noise.

“I know, right?” Connor says, never one to give up an opportunity to brag about his boyfriend. “He looks…”

“I’ll say,” Mitch agrees, clearly as much at a loss of appropriate adjectives as Connor. Dylan never dresses up if he can help it, but when he does, he pulls it off fantastically well. Connor is struck dumb even after years, so he can only imagine how Mitch feels seeing Dylan in black tie for the first time. “Let’s go say hi.” 

Dylan grins wide when he sees them, giving Mitch a bro-hug in greeting and then wrapping his arm around Connor’s waist and pulling him against his side so he can introduce him to the coworkers he was talking to as “his other half”, which is a phrase Connor doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. 

“And this is Mitch, our friend from rec hockey,” Dylan says. “He’s going to keep Connor company tonight since I’ll be running around. Guys, this is Darren and Jordana.” 

His coworkers shake both Connor’s and Mitch’s hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you, actually,” Jordana says as she lets Connor’s hand go.

“Good things, I hope,” Connor says, flashing his best charming smile.

“Of course,” Darren says. “You’re a lawyer, right?” 

Connor nods. “You got it.”

“And you’re a paramedic,” Jordana says, looking at Mitch. Dylan’s grip on Connor’s waist gets tighter. 

“Yeah,” Mitch says, surprised. “Dylan told you that?” 

“Sure,” Jordana says, nodding. “Like, I said, we’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Connor thought, not unreasonably, that she was just referring to him, and if Mitch’s expression is any indication, he thought the same. Connor glances at Dylan, who shrugs minutely, the picture of what-can-I-do? Connor can’t really blame him.

Mitch seems to shake off his surprise and asks, “So what’s your specialty here, Jordana?”

“Oh, I’m a curator,” Jordana says.

“Very cool,” Mitch says. “Does that mean you picked out everything here?” 

Jordana nods and smiles proudly. “I was in charge of this gallery, yes.”

“Awesome, what I’ve seen so far looks really interesting,” Mitch says. “What’s your favourite?” 

“Well…” Jordana says, glancing around like maybe her favourite thing will jump out at her. She gives up quickly. “I couldn’t possibly pick.”

“Oh, come on,” Mitch says, leaning in conspiratorially and smiling at her. “There’s gotta be _something_. What did you see that you just knew you _had_ to have?”

Jordana looks a little overwhelmed to have Mitch’s attention so intensely focused on her. Connor knows the feeling. “Well, uh,” she says, “I guess there is one thing…”

“You have to show me,” Mitch says immediately. “Right? I won’t get it if you just tell me.” 

He’s already offering his arm to Jordana, and after a moment she takes it, saying, “It’s true that art is more of an experience…” as she leads him away. 

There’s a long pause as they all stare after Jordana and Mitch. “Wow,” Darren says eventually. “I feel like I just witnessed art myself. I see you weren’t kidding.” 

“Wasn’t at all,” Dylan says. “He’s _very_ charming.” 

Connor doesn’t know why Dylan was discussing how charming Mitch is with his coworker, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to. “Well,” he says, “I’ll let you guys get back to work, eh? Think I’m gonna go see if the cash bar is open yet.” 

“All right,” Dylan says. He smacks a kiss on Connor’s cheek and then lets him go. “I’ll come find you again later, okay?” 

“If I find Mitch again, I’ll be in the middle of the crowd all falling over themselves to talk to him,” Connor says. 

Connor thinks he’s making a joke, but as the night goes on, he discovers that he really wasn’t at all. Mitch finds Connor standing by the bar ten minutes later and insists that he needs to show Connor the weird things Jordana showed him. Connor makes Mitch wait until he’s bought him a drink as a thank you for coming, and then lets himself be led around the room. The art is obviously significant to whatever the theme of the gallery is—Connor doesn’t stop long enough to read any signs that might actually tell him—but it’s mostly just easy to judge.

They take to standing in front of various things and nodding wisely. Mitch is good at saying things that seem like they _could_ be true about something before suddenly taking a turn for the ridiculous, and he has Connor laughing and a small audience gathering more than once. When they get tired of that, they take a walk through the silent auction tables, where Mitch whispers judgmental commentary on the insanely high bids in Connor’s ear.

Connor gets another drink after that, but Mitch declines and gets water instead. There’s a small dance floor that they end up standing at the edge of, and every so often a brave person comes up and asks Mitch if he wants to dance. Mitch always politely lets them down the same way Connor does to the few who ask him, and Connor’s not sure why. A lot of them seem nice and are good-looking, and it’s not as if Mitch isn’t single. Maybe Mitch is just bad at dancing. 

Connor gets distracted watching two people attempting to fast dance to a slow song and isn’t paying attention when he hears Mitch says, “Nah, I’m good.” He thinks he’s turning down another dance request until he looks back and sees Dylan. 

“Hey!” he says. “Snuck away?” 

“I’ve repeated the same spiel about the gallery about seventy times tonight,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes. “But I noticed you guys aren’t dancing and came to tell you to stop being so lame.” 

Connor shrugs. “Mitch has been turning down everyone who asks, so I’m guessing he’s not into it.” 

“No,” Mitch contradicts, “my mom just taught me that you dance with who brought you, and you never asked.” 

“I… oh,” Connor says weakly. 

Dylan gives Connor a look of disbelief. “Connor,” he says, admonishing, “dance with Mitch.”

Connor swallows past the dryness in his throat. “Sorry,” he says to Mitch. “Do you want to?” 

Mitch shrugs. “Unless you want to dance with Dylan.” 

“I gotta get back to work,” Dylan says, shaking his head. “You two go have fun.” 

Dylan disappears back into the crowd, and Connor looks at Mitch. “When the song changes?” he asks.

“Sure,” Mitch agrees. 

Connor doesn’t know what he was hoping for; it’s not as if the music at this gala has been anything but relatively classy slower songs, so of course the next song is the same. Mitch offers Connor his hand, and Connor takes it, letting Mitch lead him out onto the floor. They turn toward each other and stop just short of both putting their hand on the other’s waist, then nearly high five when they try to switch at the same time. 

Connor snorts, and Mitch shakes his head, smiling. “You lead,” he says.

Connor does so, placing his hand carefully on Mitch’s waist and trying not to get too far into Mitch’s personal space. That lasts for about ten seconds before Mitch laughs. “Are we leaving room for Jesus here?” he teases. 

Connor prays that he didn’t just blush and pulls Mitch in closer. “Better?” he asks, trying for confidence.

“Hm, it’ll do,” Mitch says. 

They sway for a bit, turning in careful circles because that’s all Connor has the brainpower to do. The rest is allocated to trying not to overthink everything—what Mitch meant by that, how close Mitch is to him, how Mitch’s hand feels in his… the tension is so overwhelming that Connor feels like he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t say something. 

“So,” he starts at the same time as Mitch starts saying something. They both stop short and then laugh. Connor looks questioningly at Mitch, and Mitch shakes his head. Connor shrugs a little.

They fall quiet again, but now that they’re actually looking at each other, the tension is even worse. Mitch has to look up slightly to meet Connor’s eyes, and Connor gets stuck on that for a long minute before Mitch looks away.

“Don’t look now,” Mitch says slowly, looking at something behind Connor, “but that man over there is the worst dancer I’ve ever seen.” 

Instead of turning to look, Connor turns them both so that he can see. Mitch is—not wrong. Connor didn't think someone could really screw up slow dancing considering all you have to do is sway, but this man clearly never got that message. He looks like he should be dancing to a bad party song, all jerky movements and bopping in one place interspersed with seeming to remember his dancing partner and spinning her in much too enthusiastic circles. Thankfully, she mostly just looks amused by it.

“That’s impressive,” Connor says. 

“Right?” Mitch says, and just like that the majority of the tension is gone. 

When their song ends, a slightly faster one starts, and Mitch lets go of Connor, stepping away and pausing for a moment before he starts subtly doing the chicken dance even though the song is still classical. Connor actually _does_ burst out laughing then, and he has to drag Mitch off the dance floor before he starts doing it in earnest. 

“Let’s go find Dylan,” Connor suggests. “We can follow him around and nod wisely at everything he says for the rest of the night.” 

“Cool,” Mitch agrees. 

They do exactly that, much to the chagrin of Dylan, who insists they’re not even listening to him despite repeated assurances that they are. Connor can tell that Dylan is secretly loving it, and he thinks that Mitch can, too. When the gala ends, both of them offer to stick around for clean-up, but Dylan is adamant that they didn’t come out to work and sends them home.

Tension notwithstanding, Connor thinks on the way home, he did have a good time at the gala—definitely more fun than he would have had standing by himself. Maybe Dylan wasn’t wrong, even if Connor is never going to tell him that. 

“Thanks,” Connor tells Mitch when he pulls up to the curb outside the house. “See you at hockey.” 

Mitch nods. Connor opens the car door and is about to step out when Mitch says, “Wait,” and catches him by the arm. When Connor turns back, Mitch’s face is right there. Connor freezes, his heart leaping into his throat. He could _swear_ Mitch is looking right at his lips. He knows he’s looking at Mitch’s. 

Mitch lets go and leans back. “Thanks for letting me come with you,” he says. “I had a good time.” 

“Uh,” Connor says. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Mitch waves, and Connor weakly does as well, getting out of the car and nearly tripping on his way to the door. When he gets inside the house, he just stands in the entryway for a moment, staring at the wall and thinking about how _close_ Mitch’s face had been. Connor genuinely doesn’t know what he would have done if Mitch actually _did_ kiss him, and that uncertainty is scaring him. 

He makes his way to the bedroom, loosening his tie and _still thinking about it_. He doesn’t want to kiss Mitch, he knows that, except that he _does_. It’s not the kissing that’s the problem, it’s what it would mean. But what does it even mean? Connor has to stop thinking. He hopes Dylan gets home soon, because he’s going to drive himself nuts alone.

He goes to take a shower and gets ready for bed, which doesn’t take nearly as long as he wants it to. He makes himself a PB&J and eats it standing in the middle of the kitchen, and then gives up and crawls into bed. 

He’s in the middle of losing his seventh game of Solitaire on his phone when Dylan gets home. He comes into the bedroom, still looking perfect in his tuxedo even though he’s clearly tired, and Connor’s chest actually hurts a bit. 

“Hey,” Dylan says, taking off his jacket and starting on his tie. “You’re still up.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. He watches as Dylan gets undressed and carefully lays out his tux so it doesn’t get wrinkled.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Dylan asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching down to take off his socks. 

“Yeah,” Connor says again. He wants to talk to Dylan about the whole night, but he doesn’t know how to put any of it into words. It feels important, and that makes it hard. 

Dylan tosses his socks in the direction of the laundry hamper and turns to Connor. “Yeah?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Connor nods. 

“Then why are you so quiet?” Dylan asks.

Connor shrugs, and Dylan frowns at him. “I…” Connor starts. “Dylan.”

“What?” Dylan asks, sounding slightly alarmed.

“I thought Mitch was going to kiss me tonight,” Connor says, “and the worst part is that I wanted him to? Dylan, what are we doing here?” 

“Fuck,” Dylan says, looking away and running a hand over his face. He looks back at Connor. “He was going to kiss you?”

Connor shakes his head. “He just stopped me as I was getting out of the car and told me he had a good time. I read into it, that’s all.” 

Dylan nods. “Okay,” he says. 

“Is it?” Connor asks. “I thought that because of all the flirting with Mitch we’ve been doing. Both of us. You know that it’s been happening.” He waits, and Dylan nods to confirm. “But should it be? Why are we doing that?” 

Dylan shrugs, and Connor makes a noise of frustration. “Does it make you upset at all when I flirt with him?” he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“No,” Dylan says, “of course not. We don’t…” He trails off. “I was going to say we don’t mean it, but I know we do? It’s just…”

“It’s not going to ruin us,” Connor finishes. “I know. But are we leading Mitch on?” 

Dylan looks away, clearly at a loss for an answer. They’re silent for a long moment before Dylan says, “I thought it was harmless, but this could really fuck things up, huh?” 

“I guess we can’t really know,” Connor says, shrugging. “But, like… we can’t just have him as a fuck buddy or whatever. That’s not fair to him, and that’s where the flirting is going, so…” He doesn’t bother to say that he thinks he would have too strong of feelings for that, anyway.

Dylan nods. “Yeah, and… don’t get me wrong, I love you, but.” He pauses and moves closer on the bed. Connor offers him a hand, and Dylan takes it, threading their fingers together. “While we’re being honest, sometimes it scares me how much I like Mitch.” 

Connor squeezes Dylan’s hand. “I know exactly what you mean.” 

They’re quiet for a few minutes, just sitting together. After a while, Dylan sighs and nudges Connor’s shoulder with his own. “Guess we should tone down the flirting, huh?” 

He says it like it’s a joke, but it lands with a gravity Connor wishes it didn’t have. “Yeah,” Connor agrees. “I guess we should.” 

“And I guess we should go the fuck to sleep, too,” Dylan says.

This time, Connor laughs. “Yeah, we should do that, too.” 

 

 

It’s hard, Dylan discovers, to stop doing something he’s been doing for months. That’s especially true because Mitch doesn’t know they’re supposed to be toning it down, and so he keeps on constantly flirting with Connor and Dylan. He’s forever casually touching them too much or making suggestive comments over the table at Saturday morning coffee. Dylan has to remind himself not to flirt back every time, and though he tries his best not to be cold or short with Mitch, it has to be noticeable.

The saving grace is that he knows Connor is having the same problems. They’re careful to talk about it in explicit terms rather than just letting it fester, which helps a lot, especially when they fuck it up, which they do every so often. 

At the group skate their last day of beer league, they’re poking fun at the members of the team who brought significant others who can’t skate, and Connor lets Mitch takes his hands and lead him in a loop around the rink as a joke. From the way Connor’s cheeks are too red and he’s laughing at the end of it, Dylan knows it ended up being less of a joke than it should have been. He can’t judge, though—he never did quite manage to stop habitually flirting with Mitch during practice by hip-checking and generally harassing him.

So Connor and Dylan are doing their best and mostly succeeding. They’re good people who have the best interests of everyone involved at heart. 

That’s why, when Mitch invites them to the Mites’ wind-up pool party (citing the fact that Saturday morning debriefs helped with _at least_ one-fifth of the coaching, maybe), Dylan doesn’t quite understand what they did to deserve such cruel torture.

Mitch interacting with the Mites is always a lot to deal with, so of course it’s a hundred times worse when Mitch is shirtless and wet at the pool. Dylan keeps catching both himself and Connor staring, and he exchanges more than one pathetic help-me look with Connor. 

Mitch spends most of the beginning of the party in the shallow end of the pool with the kids who aren’t great at swimming, hanging out and being adorable. He gives more than one of them a piggyback ride, and by the fourth time, Dylan can't take how cute it is anymore and flees to where Connor’s been roped into a game of volleyball in the middle of the pool. Connor, wisely, is on the team facing the deep end of the pool, so he didn’t have to witness any of that. Dylan follows his example and joins in.

Unfortunately, Dylan’s escape is short lived. About ten minutes later, Mitch and a couple kids come splashing right into the middle of the game, all of them yelling.

“Help me!” Mitch says, hiding behind Connor.

“Wh—” Connor starts, only to be interrupted by a kid yelling, “Nooooo, you’re going down!” and launching himself at Mitch, who grabs Connor’s shoulders to turn him and drag him backward out of the way. 

“They’re trying to dunk me,” Mitch explains. “You’re my shield now.” 

Dylan wants to just find this whole debacle cute, but he’s entirely distracted by Mitch practically climbing Connor’s back, clinging to him. Connor bears his weight fairly easily in the water, laughing as he goes along with Mitch and tries to protect him. The kids gang up on them, though, and it’s not long before they’re both being briefly pushed under the water. They come up sputtering and laughing at the kids’ shouts of victory, pushing their hair out of the their faces. Dylan stares at Mitch’s chest for a beat too long and then forces himself to look away. 

The volleyball game thoroughly broken up, the kids disperse around the pool. Mitch heads back toward the shallow end, and Connor comes over to Dylan. “Wanna go sit in the hot tub?” he asks. 

Dylan nods. That sounds like a safe place to be, with Mitch out of eyesight and occupied over here in the pool so he probably won’t show up. Dylan immediately feels bad for thinking that, even if it is for reasons that are complimentary to Mitch.

The universe must see fit to punish him for it, because Mitch not only joins them in the hot tub a while later, but he actually comes over and nudges them apart so he can sit between them. “Hey, boys,” he says. “There’s room here, right?” 

“Not enough for your giant ass, Christ,” Dylan says. 

Mitch laughs and puts his arms over their shoulders, stretching out so he’s more lounging than sitting. “Pretty comfy if you ask me,” he says, despite the fact that he’s definitely not quite sitting on the actual bench. “Would you prefer if I freed up some space by just sitting on your lap?”

Dylan would _not_ prefer that, but the thought has him speechless for long enough that Mitch does it anyway. He wobbles a little trying to get settled on Dylan’s lap, and Dylan automatically puts his hands on Mitch’s hips to steady him. Mitch’s skin is warm to the touch even in the hot water, and Dylan is all too aware of how close Mitch is to his dick. He tightens his grip on Mitch’s hips, thinking about what it would be like to pull Mitch closer. Mitch turns slightly to look at him, and Dylan wants to lean in and kiss the dumb grin off his face.

Connor’s foot nudges Dylan’s, and he snaps out of it, immediately letting go of Mitch and putting his hands above the water. One of the them comes to rest on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor gives him a look.

“You’re too heavy,” Dylan says to Mitch.

“Am I?” Mitch asks, not moving. 

Dylan nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

“Interesting,” Mitch says. He’s grinning like he _knows_ just how much of a little shit he’s being, but Dylan is pretty sure he doesn’t have a fucking clue what kind of inappropriate thoughts Dylan is having right now.

Thankfully, some of the kids want Mitch’s attention after a minute, and Dylan is freed. As soon as Mitch is gone, he slides closer to Connor on the bench and puts his head on his shoulder for a moment, sighing dramatically. Connor pats him on the head. 

There’s pizza and an awards ceremony after the pool session of the party, but through wordless agreement, Connor and Dylan decide to beg off. Mitch nods understandingly and then insists on them eating a slice of pizza before he sees them off with hugs.

The hugging does nothing to help Dylan’s frustration, and Connor is clearly feeling the same way, because the first thing he says when they get in the car is, “Well, this fucking sucks.” 

“Get us home,” Dylan demands. “Like, now.” 

Connor doesn’t speed on the way home, which shows a remarkable restraint Dylan doesn’t know if he would have had himself. The longer he sits in the car, the more worked up he feels, and by the time they’re outside their door, he feels like he might die. “Connor, open the fucking door right now,” he says, bouncing on his toes. 

“All right, I’m doing it, Jesus Christ,” Connor says, fumbling with his keys in the lock. As soon as he gets the door open, Dylan pushes him through it and then backs him up against it hard enough to close it with a bang. He kisses him hard, and Connor kisses back just as enthusiastically, grabbing Dylan’s ass and pulling him closer. Dylan yanks Connor’s shirt out of his pants so he can get his hands underneath it, and Connor stops kissing him to laugh.

“Damn,” he says, “I know you’re not worked up because of me, but oh my God.” 

“Fuck, no,” Dylan says, “shut up, you’re hot. But were you not looking at what I was all day? Fuck.” 

Connor makes a small noise of frustration and kisses Dylan again, running his hands up Dylan’s back and trying to wrap his leg around Dylan’s waist. Dylan groans into Connor’s mouth and then drops his forehead to Connor’s shoulder, trying to get a better angle to grind against him.

“Fuck, he was so hot,” Connor says, dropping his leg and sliding away carefully. He leads them the few feet to the couch and pushes Dylan down so he’s sitting on it before straddling his lap. He kisses Dylan again, then pulls back to say, “When he was in your lap, I so wanted all those kids to disappear so he could ride you just like this.” 

Dylan moans and nods feverishly. He has his hands tight on Connor’s hips the same way he did on Mitch’s, except this time he can give in and grind up against him. “Fuck, when he was all over you trying to hide, why was that so fucking hot?” 

“God, I know,” Connor says. “I wanted to carry him straight to bed, fuck.” He leans down and starts sucking tiny hickies into the side of Dylan’s neck. 

“Speaking of bed…” Dylan manages to say, and Connor immediately gets up, dragging Dylan with him with his hands fisted in Dylan’s shirt. They nearly trip over each other on their way to the bedroom, and they end up laughing as they’re taking off their clothes. Dylan has the brief realization that this might cross a line they weren’t intending to, but it’s too hot for him to want to stop. 

Once they’re naked, Connor gets into Dylan’s lap again and pauses for a moment, looking down at Dylan. “Have you ever,” he says, “noticed that thing Mitch does with his tongue when he’s listening really hard?”

Dylan knows exactly what Connor is talking about, and the thought of Mitch licking his lips and biting his lower lip has him groaning and pulling Connor down against him. “Have _you_ ,” he gasps as Connor rubs his ass against Dylan’s dick, “ever noticed that when he’s tired he looks like he was just fucked?” 

Connor moans. “Those flushed cheeks,” he says. “Fuck, you would look so hot fucking Mitch.” 

"Fuck," Dylan says, at a loss for words at the thought of Connor watching him fuck Mitch. "Would you tell me how to do it?"

"Yeah," Connor says, fingernails digging into the backs of Dylan's shoulders. "Come on, I want you to fuck me right now.” Dylan groans and flips them over, pressing Connor down into the bed.

Like the restrained heroes they are, they manage to stop actually mentioning Mitch as they fall into their normal routine of passionate sex. If that routine gains a more desperate edge and a distinct feeling of _oh shit_ after, well. That’s just between Dylan and Connor. 

 

 

A few days after the pool party incident, Connor and Dylan have an actual conversation and decide that it definitely wouldn't be a good idea for them to have a repeat performance of the whole talking about Mitch in the bedroom thing, considering they both felt a little creepy about it the next time they saw Mitch.

Even with that said and done, it doesn't exactly get easy for them. Mitch has a lot more free time now that both his hockey commitments have wrapped up, and he spends more time than ever hanging out with them. Even though they don't talk about him in bed anymore, he's still there half the time because they're both obviously thinking about him. Connor is reminded every time he sees Mitch sitting on their couch, though, and it makes him feel weird enough that it's easier to not do it again.

The worst time comes in late July, when Mitch spends an entire TV show marathon casually flirting with them and then ends up staying the night because it's late by the time they finish. He walks out of their bathroom in a towel after showering—because apparently he’s a night shower kind of person—and Connor and Dylan barely manage to say good night and make sure he's settled in the guest room before they close their bedroom door and are on each other. They both have trouble making eye contact with Mitch at breakfast the next morning, but he doesn’t seem fazed. 

The week after that, Mitch goes on a vacation with a bunch of his friends from work. He’s gone for a full week, and the Sunday after he gets back, he comes over to help them paint the guest bedroom. They’ve been putting off doing it for over a year—understandably, in Connor’s opinion, considering how busy they generally are, but Mitch likes to tease them about it anyway. 

“It’s _yellow_ ,” he says once again, standing in the middle of the cleared out room with his hands on his hips. “I still don’t know how you’ve lived with this.”

“We don’t come in here,” Connor says, even though he knows Mitch knows that. 

“It’s disrespectful to your guests,” Mitch says.

“You’re the only guest we ever have,” Dylan says from the floor, where he’s stirring a bucket of light green paint. 

Mitch mock gasps. “Are you saying you don’t respect me?” 

Dylan keeps his gaze focused on the paint, obviously hiding a smile. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

“Unbelievable,” Mitch says. “Did you guys even miss me while I was gone?” 

Connor shrugs. “Your painting skills, maybe,” he says. “The living room is looking pretty good.” 

“Ha, right. Are you guys going to sit on your asses and watch me do it myself this time, too?” Mitch asks. He takes the paint bucket from Dylan and pours it into a tray, then picks up a paint roller and plants it on the ground, leaning against it and raising his eyebrows at them.

“Well, we _did_ just say it was looking good,” Dylan says.

“And you wouldn’t let us do the last coat,” Connor points out. “You said we were doing it wrong.” 

“You left _drips_ ,” Mitch says, exasperated, the same way he has every time they bring it up since he helped paint the living room in June. He flips the roller over and gets it covered in paint. “Honestly, what are you guys going to do when I get a boyfriend or girlfriend of my own? I won’t have time to do this shit for you helpless fools.” 

Connor feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs. He doesn’t know why, but he’s never really considered the idea that Mitch might find a significant other that’s not Connor and Dylan. He should have, because why _wouldn’t_ Mitch, but he didn’t. The idea of it makes Connor feel nauseous. 

A glance over at Dylan proves that he’s having a similar reaction. Mitch starts painting the wall, oblivious. 

 

 

It’s a long few hours before Mitch leaves, the paint on the guest bedroom walls drying and Mitch pleased with his reward of a home-cooked meal. As soon as the door closes behind Mitch, Connor turns and says, “Dylan.” 

“What?” Dylan asks, looking slightly alarmed.

“What Mitch said about getting a boyfriend or girlfriend…” Connor lets the sentence trail off, hoping for Dylan to finish it the way Connor would. 

Dylan’s face falls. “Fuck, I know,” he says. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

“Me neither,” Connor agrees, relieved that he’s not the only one. He’s glad they can commiserate over this. “I don’t like it.”

Dylan shakes his head. “We can’t let him do that.” 

Connor scoffs. “Well, it’s not like we can stop him.” 

“But…” Dylan says, and then he closes his mouth, frowning.

Connor waits for a moment, then starts thinking out loud in an attempt to reason with both himself and Dylan. “He deserves to find someone, you know? He could go do that any time he wanted to. He’d have a line down the block just like at the charity gala last spring, remember? He deserves to be happy.”

“He could be happy with _us_ ,” Dylan bursts out, petulant, and Connor stares at him. Dylan stares back, setting his jaw in the way that Connor knows means he’s serious. 

“I…” Connor says. That statement is so much the opposite of everything he’s been telling himself for months that he’s having trouble processing it. “We should sit down.” 

Dylan nods, and both of them move to settle on the couch. Connor stares at his hands in his lap for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, then looks up at Dylan. “Do you really think that’s an option?” 

“Why not?” Dylan says earnestly. “We’re adults. If we’re out here imagining him having sex with us—and I know we are, even if we never say it—we can imagine him actually dating us, can’t we?” 

“Okay, yeah,” Connor agrees. “We can _imagine_ it. But I don’t think that’s all we’re talking about.” 

Dylan worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “No,” he says after a moment. “That’s not all we’re talking about.” 

“That’s a huge decision,” Connor says, because he feels like it needs to be verbalized. “Like, life-changing.”

“Right, but how much would it change, really?” Dylan says, already on the argument offensive. “We practically already date Mitch. He’s here all the time, we pretty much go on dates, we—”

“Dyls,” Connor interrupts, putting his hand on Dylan’s thigh. “You don’t need to convince me. I want him too, exactly the way you do. But you can’t say it won’t change anything. I know Mitch flirts with us, but he’s like that with everyone. We could ask, and he could say no. We could ask and he could say yes, and it could go horribly.”

“Fuck, you’re so realistic,” Dylan complains, but he puts his hand over top of Connor’s. They’re both quiet for a moment before Dylan asks, “What do we do, then?” 

Connor shrugs. “I don’t know. I just think we should recognize the risk before we jump in headfirst.” 

Dylan nods. “Do you _want_ to jump in headfirst?” he asks. 

It’s a valid question, one that Connor isn’t entirely sure he knows the answer to. He and Dylan have been together for so long that it feels incredibly scary to even consider doing anything to change it. At the same time, it already feels like Mitch has changed something—nothing fundamental, but a change nonetheless. On top of that… well, Connor’s never been the kind of person to let an opportunity pass him by. 

“If you’re coming with me,” Connor says, making eye contact with Dylan. 

Dylan doesn’t hesitate at all before nodding. “Of course,” he says, squeezing Connor’s hand. 

Connor lets out a breath shakily, then laughs. “Okay,” he says, “now that we’ve got the dramatics over with…”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Right. I guess we should figure out what it is we want to get ourselves into.”

“And how we’re going to get Mitch on board with the plan,” Connor agrees. “Whatever the plan is.” 

“Well, the goal is dating Mitch, right?” Dylan says. “Like, having him be an equal part of the relationship?”

Connor nods. “Because we don’t want to see him with anyone else.”

“Right. And not just a sex thing, either,” Dylan says. “We already decided we didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“In retrospect, we probably should have realized then,” Connor says, thinking about how afraid he was—and still is, really—of his feelings for Mitch growing. 

Dylan shrugs. “It’s like you said,” he points out, “it’s a life-changing thing. Takes time.” 

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Okay, so, we want him to entirely join our relationship.”

“Because we’re greedy fuckers,” Dylan says, laughing. He sobers a moment later. “Which is what he’ll probably tell us.”

It’s a distinct possibility, but Connor can’t stand that sad look on Dylan’s face. “Hey, no. Maybe he wants this as much as we do.”

“I hope so,” Dylan says. “If he doesn’t, I don’t think we should risk it, right?”

Connor frowns. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re not going to give him any sort of ultimatum, but I don’t think we should… settle, if you know what I mean? Like, if he says he’d just be up for a fun threesome or something. That’s not… it wouldn’t be a good idea.” 

“Unfortunately,” Dylan agrees. “So how do we ask?” 

Connor has no idea. It’s not like there are many examples in the world of how to ask your best friend to date you and your boyfriend. “We… take him on a date?” he suggests.

“I like it,” Dylan says, then makes a face. “Except how’s he going to know it’s a date? I’m not even sure just calling it one would be clear enough in this case.”

“We’ve joked ourselves into a corner,” Connor says wryly. 

Dylan snorts. “Typical.”

“Maybe we need to just ask,” Connor says. “You know, be direct about it? Let him know what’s up and see how he feels.”

“Very adult sounding, so it’s probably a good idea,” Dylan says. He pauses, looking away thoughtfully and then turning back to Connor. “That’s scary as fuck.”

Connor agrees completely. “Yeah, I know. Should we give ourselves time to work up to it? Or back out, if we need to.” 

Dylan nods. “But not too long. Maybe a week? Talk to Mitch at coffee on Saturday?” 

“Yeah, except we can’t talk to him about something serious in the middle of a Tim Hortons,” Connor points out.

“True,” Dylan says. “So we go somewhere else. A romantic walk in the park, maybe.” 

“Charming,” Connor teases. “But reasonable. Sure.” 

Dylan nods seriously, and Connor tries and fails to stop himself from laughing. “Sorry,” he says, “I just. We’re planning how to ask out Mitch Marner. I feel a little ridiculous.” 

“You _are_ a little ridiculous,” Dylan says. “But yeah, I know. It’s like telling yourself you can’t eat cake and being pretty good at not eating cake for months, and then you’re making plans with your boyfriend to shove all the cake in the world into each other’s mouths, and… stop laughing! I’m serious!” 

Connor can’t stop laughing. Dylan’s cake analogy is probably the worst thing he’s heard in a month, and he tells Dylan so through his laughter. Dylan pouts at him, and Connor laughs even harder. 

“God, Dyl,” Connor says when he’s mostly recovered, “I fucking love you, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Dylan says, grinning wide, “I know.” 

 

 

Mitch taps his fingers on the wooden bench he’s sitting on, watching the entrance to the parking lot. He checks the time on his phone—it’s just before nine-thirty, and the late August sun is already high in the sky. When he looks up, Connor and Dylan’s SUV is pulling in. He stands and waits, then waves when he sees them getting out. 

“Morning!” he says, meeting them halfway. 

“Hey,” Connor says. “Did you have coffee?” 

Mitch shakes his head. “Tea instead, since I was just making it at home,” he explains. “I see you do, though.” He nods at the Tims cups Dylan and Connor are holding. 

“Figured we could use the caffeine,” Dylan says. Even though Dylan is clutching his cup like a lifeline, Mitch can’t help but notice that he actually looks a lot more awake than he usually does for the first half hour of their coffee meetings.

“What’s up with the change in venue, anyway?” Mitch asks. “Do we like nature now? Are we trying to get a head start on getting in shape for hockey season?”

He’s actually genuinely curious, considering all he knows is that Connor texted him the day before asking if he wanted to meet them at the park instead of their regular Tims. They’ve never once changed their routine, so Mitch has no idea why they would now. 

Instead of giving him an answer, though, Connor gestures toward the walking path to his right. “Should we walk a bit?” 

“Yeah, let’s go,” Dylan agrees, already heading toward the path. Connor follows him, and after a moment, Mitch does as well. Walking slightly behind them, Mitch can see that they seem to be deliberately not walking too close together or looking at each other, and there’s definitely a weird vibe in the air that’s starting to freak Mitch out. 

They walk together for a couple minutes, Dylan and Connor sipping their coffee and making idle chit-chat. Mitch goes along with it, though he stills feels like something is weird, and then Dylan abruptly stops walking next to a bench. “Let’s sit,” he says, already going to do so.

Mitch is even more confused at that, and when he sits down next to Dylan only for Connor to sit on the other side of _him_ instead of Dylan, he internally panics. This is seeming more and more like a trouble in paradise thing, and Mitch does _not_ want to be in the middle of that at all. “Guys,” he says seriously, “what’s going on?” 

“Sorry,” Connor says, “we just wanted to talk to you about something in a not-so-crowded place.”

“Fuck, you broke up,” Mitch blurts out, unable to keep the thought in anymore.

“No, what the fuck?” Dylan says, affronted. 

“Why would you think that?” Connor asks, looking amused. 

Mitch frowns. “Well, what am I supposed to think? Why are you being so weird?” he asks. Connor and Dylan obviously do some kind of silent communication over his head, and Mitch huffs. “If you want a threesome, guys, all you have to do is ask.”

He’s expecting them to laugh it off and get to the part where they tell him what the fuck is actually going on, but instead his words are met with a loaded silence. “Uh…” Dylan says.

“Holy shit, are you serious?” Mitch asks. He can’t believe this is happening. “I was kidding.” 

“We wanted to ask you if you wanted to go on a date with us, actually,” Connor says. “Not, like—”

“A _date_?” Mitch interrupts. He’s pretty sure he’s having hearing issues. “With… both of you?”

“Well, we’re not breaking up, so yeah,” Dylan says wryly. 

“Holy fuck,” Mitch mutters. “You’re like… serious?” 

Both of them nod. “We’re serious,” Dylan says. 

Mitch looks between them for a minute, hoping one of them is going to tell them they’re joking, but they both maintain their frustratingly serious expressions. Mitch shakes his head, and then gets up and paces back and forth across the path a couple times. Connor and Dylan, arguably his two best friends, a madly in love couple whose relationship he admires and absolutely wants to be a part of because he’s never been able to keep his feelings to himself, have asked him if he wants to go on a _date._ Okay. 

_Not_ okay. He can’t do that. That would ruin everything. He sits back down on the bench. Connor and Dylan are both staring at him expectantly, and it’s a lot of pressure. 

“Look,” Mitch says, “it’s not that I don’t really appreciate the offer, because I do. It’s really. Well, I’d really like to, actually, but that’s why I can’t. I’ve thought about it before, you know, and I’ve always concluded that it’s just not a good idea, and even though you’re actually _asking_ now, I still think that. So. I can’t, because if we go down that road, I’m not going to want it to end.” 

There’s quiet for a long moment. Mitch stares at the ground, then forces himself to look up at Connor and Dylan. “That seems valid,” Connor says slowly, “but Mitch, we wouldn’t want it to end, either. We’re not asking for just a fling.”

Mitch shakes his head in disbelief. “No way. That sounds good now, but what if it doesn’t work out?” He continues without waiting for a response. “Because I think the most likely thing is that you two go back to what you were before, because that’s been working forever, and I get left on my own.”

“But what if it _does_ work out?” Dylan asks.

Mitch shrugs. “Why should we risk it? I’d rather keep you two as my friends than lose you entirely.” 

There’s a pause that seems to last longer than it probably actually does, and then Connor says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Mitch asks cautiously. 

Connor nods, and after a moment, so does Dylan. “We respect what you’re saying,” Connor says. 

“But the offer is still on the table if you change your mind,” Dylan adds. 

“Okay,” Mitch says. He’s spent enough time talking himself out of this over the past few months that he’s pretty sure he’s not going to change his mind, but he appreciates the thought. 

 

 

Dylan flips the page of his book and reads the first paragraph of the new page. It doesn’t make any sense, and he flips back to find the spot where he clearly stopped paying attention to what he’s reading. It’s the third time he’s done the same in the past few minutes, too preoccupied with the nagging worry that’s been in the back of his mind since Saturday. 

He tries to keep reading for another few minutes, but eventually he gives up and closes his book, putting it on the bedside table. Connor looks up from whatever mindless game he’s playing on his phone now, eyebrows furrowed. It’s later than they’re usually up on a Wednesday night, but neither of them have been sleeping very well lately, and it feels a lot better to stay awake together in the warm lamp light than to lie awake in the dark. 

Things weren’t terribly weird with Mitch after he rejected them; they talked for a while after, but they’d definitely cut their morning shorter than they usually do. Connor and Dylan agreed to let Mitch have some space, afraid they scared him off entirely, and they still haven’t heard from him. That’s not weird in and of itself—Mitch does work insanely long and busy shifts—but it has that anxious vibe around it that comes from not quite knowing where you stand with someone. 

Dylan nudges his leg against Connor’s under the blankets. Connor nudges back and locks his phone. “What’s up?” he asks, voice soft. 

Dylan shrugs. “Do you think we fucked up?” he asks. 

“No,” Connor says with an immediacy that makes Dylan feel better. “It was a calculated risk.”

Dylan knows that, but it’s hard to remember when he keeps thinking that they might have started down a path that pushes their best friend away. Worse, he’s even more afraid after the fragility of the past few days that he and Connor have accidentally cracked the foundations of their own relationship. 

“I just keep thinking about what he said about having thought about it before,” Dylan says instead of voicing any of the rest of it. “I keep hoping that means he could still change his mind.”

“Yeah, me too,” Connor says. He bites the inside of his lip and furrows his eyebrows in that way Dylan knows means he’s trying to put something into words, so Dylan waits. “I just… even if he never does, you know you’re enough for me, right?” 

Connor’s expression reminds Dylan vividly of their anniversary this past July. They took a full weekend all to themselves, going on a proper fancy date on the Friday night and then spending the next couple days almost entirely in bed. Dylan can honestly say he didn’t think of anyone but Connor the whole time. It’s constantly a marvel to him how obsessed they are with each other even after seven years. Connor looked just as honest and vulnerable and in love then as he does now, and Dylan feels dumb for even considering that it could be otherwise. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dylan says. “Same to you.” 

Connor smiles and leans in to kiss Dylan, short and sweet. Dylan kisses back easily. Even with the absolute certainty of their relationship being solid, there’s still a bittersweet vibe in the room. Dylan guesses that makes sense; it always hurts to be rejected, and just because they don’t need Mitch doesn’t mean they don’t want him. 

Dylan is about to suggest they try to sleep when Connor’s phone starts ringing in his hand. He looks down at the screen, and his eyes widen. He turns it so Dylan can see that it’s Mitch calling, and Dylan’s heart skips in his chest.

“Speak of the devil,” Dylan mumbles. 

Connor swipes across his screen to answer the call. “Hello?” he says, and Dylan moves closer and leans in close, ear practically pressed against the phone as well so he can hear what Mitch is saying.

“—so late, but I couldn’t stop thinking,” Mitch says.

“That’s okay, we’re both awake,” Connor says, trying to push Dylan away slightly. Dylan refuses to move. “What’s up?” 

“I… honestly, I’m not sure, but I think I might have given you an answer too quickly?” Mitch says.

Dylan sits up so quickly he nearly knocks the phone right out of Connor’s hand. He grabs Connor’s arm and stares at him. Connor stares back, his eyes just as wide as Dylan’s must be.

“Do you mind if I put you on speaker?” Connor asks. Mitch must agree, because Connor does so and holds the phone carefully between them.

“Hi, Mitch,” Dylan says. 

“Hey,” Mitch says. “Did you hear what I said before, or—”

“I heard it,” Dylan says. “You think you might’ve changed your mind?” 

“I don’t know,” Mitch says. “I think _something_ , at least, or else I’d be sound asleep right now. Actually, can I ask you guys a question?” 

“Absolutely,” Connor says. 

“Anything,” Dylan agrees.

“This asking me out thing…” Mitch starts, sounding uncertain, “that’s not because of… I don’t know, something going wrong with you, right? I know you said you didn’t break up, but is this, like, a preemptive attempt to—”

“No,” Dylan says. “No, this isn’t about anything being wrong with us. We’re solid. Totally.”

“Dylan’s right,” Connor says. “We don’t want to use you as a crutch.”

“Okay…” Mitch says, sounding entirely too doubtful for Dylan’s liking. “Then why?” 

Dylan’s chest physically hurts at the genuine confusion in Mitch’s voice. He wishes this weren’t a phone conversation so that he could hug him. “Because of _you_ ,” he says.

“We just really like you,” Connor adds. “Like, really.” 

Mitch is quiet for a long moment. Dylan reaches for Connor’s free hand and holds on tight. “I’m trying to wrap my head around that,” Mitch admits. “It’s not easy.”

“It should be,” Dylan says fiercely.

Mitch laughs. “I’m working on it,” he says again. “So, um. If I did change my mind, and no promises that I will, what would that even… be like?” 

“It wouldn’t be much different than we are now,” Connor says. “We’d still hang out a lot, it would just be more… romantic, I guess.” 

“And there would be sex,” Mitch says. Dylan is shocked by how much it doesn’t sound like a question at all.

“If you want?” Connor says, cautious.

“Well, do you?” Mitch asks. 

“Uh,” Connor says, clearing his throat, “I mean—”

“Yeah,” Dylan says, refusing to let Connor stumble through an explanation of their desire to respect boundaries and always wait for consent. “We do if you do.”

“Right,” Mitch says. “Okay. Um.”

“Do you?” Dylan asks, suddenly feeling brave. Connor gives him a look, but Dylan shrugs. He wants to know the answer. 

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Mitch says, making it sound as though it’s obvious. Dylan shakes his head at the phone in disbelief. “I’m still afraid of what happens if we do that and then everything falls apart.”

Connor looks determined at that. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he says, “and I don’t think it’s reasonable to think that if this failed, you would be the only one alone. Dylan and I are solid, yes, and have been for years, but that’s because we put the work into our relationship. It’s not that we’re always perfect, it’s that we know how to deal with it when we’re not.” He pauses, looking at Dylan. Dylan nods encouragingly. “I think with practice, we could get there with all three of us.” 

“That’s…” Mitch says. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Connor asks. 

“It sounds really good,” Mitch says. “And I’m starting to think I’d be stupid to tell you guys no. So maybe… we could try something on a trial basis? Like… seeing how it goes if we start to put the work in.”

Dylan waits the split second it takes for Connor to nod before he says, “Yes, we can try that.” 

“But, uh…” Mitch says, “can we put a hold on the sexual things? Those feel, um, risky to me.”

“Sure,” Connor agrees right away.

“That’s fine,” Dylan says. He’s pretty sure he and Connor both are just too excited to have _anything_ to care that Mitch doesn’t want to have sex right away. 

“Okay,” Mitch says. “So, uh. I think I’ll call you guys again tomorrow, okay? We should all get some sleep.” 

Connor nods. “That’s fair. Thanks for calling.”

“Thanks for answering,” Mitch says. “Night, guys.”

“Night, Mitch,” Dylan says. 

“Good night,” Connor says, and then he hangs up. 

Connor and Dylan stare at each other for a long moment. Dylan is pretty sure they’re both feeling the same mixed package of excited, confused, and terrified.

Connor is the first to break, smiling wide. “Holy shit,” he says, his tone encompassing all the feelings Dylan thought it would.

Dylan grins back at him. “Holy _shit_ ,” he agrees. 

 

 

In the couple weeks that follow the late night phone call from Mitch, the three of them hang out together a few times outside of their usual Saturday morning routine. It’s going well so far, Connor thinks, inasmuch as it doesn’t feel weird or anything. In fact, it feels the same as it’s always been when he’s not thinking about it, and when he is, it just seems more cautious than anything.

Connor knows for certain that he’s not sure how to navigate this, and he doesn’t think Dylan and Mitch are faring any better. With the obvious ways of changing their relationship off the table, it’s hard to make it feel as though anything _has_ changed, and Connor is determined to figure out what they can do to make it seem like a real step toward what they all want.

There’s no way Connor can do that on his own, though, and when Mitch shows up at their door the evening Connor was going to bring it up for them to discuss, he looks like he’s had an awful day. Connor immediately tables the conversation in his head, not wanting to make Mitch talk about something heavy when he already looks weighed down. 

“Bad shift?” Connor asks cautiously. 

Mitch shrugs, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly in a wry smile. “I’ve had better,” he says. “What are we planning?”

Dylan shrugs. “We were going to decide on the fly,” he says. “Wanna just hang out here and watch a movie or something?” 

“I could use some Netflix and chill, yeah,” Mitch says. Connor snorts and rolls his eyes, and Mitch grins. It makes Connor feel better to see that he’s still his usual self; he’d be _really_ worried on the day Mitch showed up and didn’t make a suggestive joke. 

They arrange themselves on the couch so that Mitch is in the middle, Dylan curled up on one end with the remote and Connor on the other. It takes fifteen minutes of arguing over Netflix categories and debating whether something with real emotional substance or something that’s absolute drivel is more effective in washing away a bad day for them to decide on a movie. Dylan is of the opinion that a good cry is the best way to let all your feelings out, but Mitch argues that he’d rather have a good laugh and get his mind off the bad shit. Connor refuses to have an opinion to break the tie, so they flip a coin and Mitch wins.

Connor feels pretty good about that result, but unfortunately, he finds the movie boring within ten minutes. Having trouble concentrating leaves a lot of brainpower wide open for thinking. He keeps turning over the conversation they’re not having and the implications of them being in a relationship now in his head. The more he thinks about it, the more he starts to realize that he’s not acting like it at all.

Connor looks sidelong at Mitch. He’s sitting straight up, his feet on the coffee table and his eyes fixed on the TV, but it’s not anything about that that catches Connor’s attention. Instead, he finds himself looking at the space around Mitch—space that he and Dylan are both clearly intentionally leaving.

If Dylan came home after a bad day, Connor wouldn’t hesitate before offering him a hug and thoroughly cuddling him. Why, he realizes, should it be any different with Mitch? 

Still, though, he doesn’t want to unintentionally cross any boundaries. He feels like there’s a whole new undercurrent to any kind of physical affection now, and he doesn’t want to make Mitch uncomfortable. He takes the first step by relaxing and moving slightly closer to Mitch on the couch, and then nudging him gently with his elbow. “Hey,” he says quietly.

Both Mitch and Dylan look over at him. “What’s up?” Mitch asks.

“Is cuddling on the table?” Connor asks. “Like, would it be okay?”

Mitch barely hesitates before nodding, but his expression seems unsure. Connor is a little worried even as he goes to put his arm around Mitch and pull him in, especially when Mitch stays stiff for a second. A moment later, all the tension goes right out of Mitch and he slumps against Connor’s chest. It’s at once a relief and extremely gratifying, especially with Dylan grinning fondly at them. He moves to lean against Mitch’s other side.

“You have no idea how cuddly this is gonna get,” Dylan tells Mitch, taking his hand. “It’s a free-for-all now, baby.”

Mitch laughs slightly, then says, cautious, “But no kissing, right?”

Connor is quick to reassure him. “Not unless you initiate it.”

“And we’ll stop with the cuddling if you say so,” Dylan adds. “No questions asked.” 

“No,” Mitch says. “No… I can handle cuddling.” 

He laughs like it’s a joke, but Connor knows exactly what he means. Sitting here, cuddling in the middle of the couch with Mitch and Dylan, it’s easy to imagine doing it all the time. If Mitch is still having doubts about the long-lasting nature of this arrangement, Connor can see how this might be too much of a good thing.

There’s no way Connor wants to give this up, though, and the way Dylan sighs slightly and rests his head comfortably on Mitch’s shoulder makes Connor think that Dylan agrees. They’re just going to have to keep showing Mitch exactly what he gets from a relationship with them, and eventually he’ll realize that they’re all in it for the long-term.

At least, that’s the ideal. Connor doesn’t want to think about the alternative, so he does his best to actually pay attention to the movie. Maybe Mitch’s method isn’t so bad after all.

 

 

Ever since the semester of college when they barely saw each other, Dylan and Connor have always been sure to go on at least one date a month. When date night rolls around in September, it seems only logical to make sure Mitch can come with them. 

“Do you like bowling?” Dylan asks Mitch on the phone while he’s making supper a few days before. “If not, we can definitely do something else.” 

“Bowling?” Mitch asks. 

“Yeah,” Dylan confirms, stirring the pan of sauce in front of him. “For Friday, I mean.” 

“Friday?” Mitch repeats. “Weren’t we just hanging out like usual?”

Dylan adds pepper to the sauce. “We gotta get out of the house _sometimes_ ,” he says. “It’s not that special if we just bum around here or whatever.” 

“Why is it—” Mitch starts, then cuts himself off and is quiet for a long moment. “Is this date night?” 

“Yeah,” Dylan says. He’d thought that was obvious when they asked, but apparently not. “You’re invited because we’re dating you. On a trial basis, sure, but this is definitely included in the trial package.” 

He’s bracing himself for Mitch to change his mind, but all he gets is a, “Huh, right. Okay. Bowling sounds fun.” Dylan thanks his lucky stars and makes a mental note to tell Connor about it when he gets home from work.

It turns out some of the doubt on Mitch’s side must’ve lingered or something, because even by Friday, Mitch still looks kind of stunned to be going out with them. 

“It’s just bowling,” Connor tells Mitch earnestly. “We’re gonna be really competitive and wear the dumb shoes and stuff, nothing special. Oh! You brought socks, right?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got socks,” Mitch says. He looks amused by Connor now, which Dylan thinks is an improvement.

Connor approaches the counter to pay for their lane while Mitch and Dylan hang back slightly. Mitch leans closer to Dylan and says quietly, “You know, sometimes I work on the third Friday of the month.”

He seems cautious about it, but Dylan just shrugs in response. “So we’ll vary when date night is,” he says. He’s pretty sure the pleased look on Mitch’s face means that’s the response he was looking for. 

Once they’ve got their shoes, they head over to their lane. Dylan steals the spot behind the computer and gets his shoes on quickly, then says, “All right, I’m putting Mitch in here as Marny.”

“If I’m Marny, then you’re Dylly,” Mitch says. “And that makes Connor—”

“Connie,” Dylan finishes with him. “Marny, Dylly, and Connie.” They both crack up. 

Connor rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing, too. “Come on, put the names in, then,” he orders. “Let’s get this show on the road.” 

It’s no surprise that they’re all competitive as hell, and after Connor bowls a strike and two spares all in a row, Mitch and Dylan decide that every time he doesn’t get a strike, the rest of his throws have to be with his eyes closed. Connor accepts the handicap with a lot of complaining and then promptly bowls a spare again anyway.

“That’s just not fair,” Mitch complains as he retrieves his ball from the return and lines up to throw. “Why are you so good at everything?” 

Connor shrugs. “Do you want some help?” he asks, going over to Mitch before he can respond. Dylan’s breath catches in his throat as he watches Connor stand right behind Mitch and reach around him to hold his wrists.

Mitch stands stock still for a moment, then noticeably relaxes as Connor guides his hands into a throwing position. Connor’s chest is pressed against Mitch’s back, and Dylan can see that Connor is saying something into Mitch’s ear, but he can’t quite hear. He can’t even really imagine, because there’s no way doing that is particularly helping Mitch’s form. 

Mitch nods, and Connor steps away. Mitch hands him the ball, and Connor demonstrates the three-step strategy he’s tried to teach Dylan before, stopping short before actually throwing the ball. Dylan watches Mitch obviously not pay attention in favour of looking at Connor’s ass. 

“You want to always look up,” Connor tells Mitch earnestly. “Right where you want the ball to go.”

“Right,” Mitch says, taking his ball back from Connor. “I got it.” He doesn’t look at all like he’s got it. Dylan knows the feeling. 

Connor comes back over to where Dylan is sitting, and they both watch silently as Mitch manages to knock a few pins down, though his ball curves too far to the right. Connor cheers and yells encouragement, and then leans over to Dylan. “Just so you know,” he murmurs, “that was for the time you helped Mitch cut an onion.” 

“I deserved that,” Dylan admits, though he kind of thinks they all won in both cases. 

It’s his turn next, and to his chagrin and the delight of Mitch and Connor, he completely misthrows and gets a gutter ball, then overcorrects and gets another one the next throw. 

“Do we need to get out the bumpers, Dylly?” Mitch teases. Dylan glares at him, and Mitch laughs. “Aw, don’t give me that look, sweetie.”

“I’ll show you a look,” Dylan says nonsensically, which really only serves to make Mitch and Connor laugh at him more. 

Connor wins the first game by a landslide, but the second game is closer. Dylan is proud of himself for not overthinking his throws anymore, but he still comes in dead last because he fucking sucks at bowling, which is something he’s never going to accept about himself. 

In between the second and third games, Mitch goes and buys a bunch of candy and rips into a package of Skittles. When Dylan tries to reach for one, he smacks his hand and points him toward the other candy. “This is mine,” he says. 

“Is this like the thing you do before hockey games?” Dylan asks, eyes narrowed. Mitch just shrugs, and Dylan gives up and takes the watermelon candy for himself. 

It probably _is_ like Mitch’s obsession with eating a pack of Skittles before every game, because he absolutely murders the third game. He and Connor are neck in neck with each other for number of strikes, and Dylan starts being dramatic about his gutter balls out of sheer defence. 

“That’s fine,” he says as one of his turns ends with only one pin knocked down. “I didn’t want to win anyway!” Both Mitch and Connor ignore him, which Dylan is well aware he probably deserves.

Mitch ends up winning by a fairly close margin and is absolutely delighted by it. “Suck it, hot shot,” he tells Connor. “Bet you regret giving me tips now.”

“Deeply,” Connor confirms, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning. 

“All right, seriously,” Dylan says. “No more of this, I can’t take the shame.” 

“We didn’t pay for anymore time anyway,” Connor tells him.

“The _shame_ ,” Dylan insists. “Take pity on me.” 

Mitch laughs and throws an arm around Dylan’s shoulders. “I pity you, Dylly,” he says. 

“I pity your face, Marny,” Dylan says.

Mitch laughs again. “All right, see if I ever listen when you ask for things.” 

They go to return their shoes, and as Dylan is tying his runners, Mitch nudges him in the shoulder. He finishes his bow and looks up, and Mitch gestures at a claw machine by the door. “You know,” he says, “when I was a kid, I was never allowed to use those.”

“I blew way too much money in high school,” Dylan says. 

“That’s true, he did,” Connor confirms.

There’s a loaded pause as Dylan and Mitch exchange a look, and then they head straight for the claw machine. Connor trails after them. “I’m going first,” Mitch informs them, rummaging in his pockets for change. He peers into the machine and then points. “I’m gonna get that cute owl for Davo.”

“I don’t even want that owl,” Connor says.

“You’re gonna get it,” Mitch insists. 

“And if he doesn’t get it, I will,” Dylan says.

Many lost loonies later, Dylan and Mitch give up, cursing the name of the claw machine. Connor rolls his eyes at them as they pout on their way out to the car. “I told you I didn’t want it. You’re both dumb.”

“You love it,” Mitch says. Connor blushes and doesn’t respond.

They’d picked up Mitch for the date, so they drive him home. Dylan rides in the back so Mitch can take shotgun, then hops out when they get to his place. He opens the car door for him just to be gentlemanly, but Mitch doesn’t immediately get out. Dylan stands awkwardly for a moment, then asks, “Glad you came?”

“Yeah, of course,” Mitch says. “I had fun.” He glances at Connor, looking thoughtful, and Dylan’s heartbeat increases. It’s not like Dylan’s been on a first date within recent memory, but he knows that these things usually end with a kiss goodnight. The rules mean he and Connor know _they_ can’t kiss Mitch goodbye, but there’s a chance that he might kiss them.

Mitch leans over to Connor and Dylan thinks for a moment he might, but then he realizes it’s clearly for a hug, which Connor gives him easily. He hops out of the car and slides past Dylan closer than he needed to be. Dylan spreads his arms, eyebrows raised, and Mitch grins and hugs him.

“See you guys,” he says when he lets go. 

“See you,” Dylan echoes. Connor waves. Dylan gets into the car as soon as Mitch starts walking away, but they sit there and watch him until he goes inside. Dylan lets himself sigh slightly. “That was good, right?”

Connor nods as he shifts the car into drive. “I think it was a success,” he says. 

“Right,” Dylan says, unable to stop smiling. “Good.”

 

 

Weeks into dating Connor and Dylan, Mitch still can’t quite get himself to believe it’s real. He’s keeping it cautious, not wanting to rush things, but the more time passes, the more he’s starting to think he doesn’t need to. It’s not actually much different from how they already were, and the things that are different—actual dates, actively making sure to talk, all the gratuitous touching—are good. Mitch might even say they’re great. He’s starting to feel like he really does fit with Connor and Dylan. 

Lately Mitch has been taking every opportunity he can to spend time with Connor and Dylan, which he recognizes is typical of the honeymoon stage of a relationship and is trying not to think too hard about. That new impulse is why he ends up following Connor and Dylan to their place after one of the first practices of the season even though he should probably be going home to bed. He and Connor were still talking about power play tactics with the new makeup of their rec team when they left the rink, and Mitch is invested in continuing the conversation.

Dylan says he’s going to take a shower as soon as they get inside, and Connor flops down on the couch. He prods at the other end of the couch with his foot, a clear invitation for Mitch to join him. “I was thinking more in the car,” he says as Mitch sits, “and I think a behind-the-net kind of play would actually work really well for us.”

Mitch raises his eyebrows. “That’s a little old school,” he says, “but I’m listening.” 

“I mean, yeah, Gretzky and all, but it would be surprising,” Connor points out. “We’d have the advantage there.”

“Maybe,” Mitch says, “but that completely gives up the advantage in front of the net, which kind of negates the whole point of the power play, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but we have the skill players to pull it off,” Connor says.

Mitch shakes his head. “We’re much better off with a one-three-one strategy, our playmaker ability is good enough to pull _that_ off.” 

“Who _doesn’t_ know one-three-one, though?” Connor asks. “People on the kill are ready for that.”

“If you do it right, it doesn’t matter how ready they are.” 

Connor huffs. “Next you’ll be saying we should just go with a good old umbrella.”

“Why not?” Mitch asks, starting to get a little annoyed. “There’s no reason to mess with a good thing in beer league.” 

“There’s no reason not to take a risk in beer league,” Connor counters. 

Mitch isn't sure how the argument gets so out of hand from there, but neither of them even notices that Dylan has re-joined them until he's standing directly in front of the couch. “What’s all the yelling about?” he asks loudly.

Connor closes his mouth in the middle of snapping at Mitch and turns to Dylan. “Mitch thinks we shouldn’t be allowed to do _fun_ plays in beer league.” 

“That’s just because Connor wants to try _stupid_ plays,” Mitch protests. “We still want to win, it’s not like we want to be the beer league laughingstock!” 

Connor rolls his eyes for what must be the hundredth time in this conversation. Mitch is sick of it. “Back me up here, Dylan.” 

There’s a brief moment after Connor speaks where Dylan looks back and forth between Mitch and Connor, and Mitch very abruptly realizes that he _knows_ exactly what Dylan is going to say. He’s said it before, though not since they started their relationship. Mitch has a split second to brace himself before Dylan opens his mouth and says, “Well, you know I gotta go with Connor, because…” 

He trails off, obviously catching himself, but Mitch’s mouth already tastes like dust. “Because he’s your boyfriend,” Mitch finishes. He wishes he could take that as the joke it’s always been, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. “And I guess that means I’m not.” 

“Mitch,” Dylan says, but Mitch is already standing and heading for the door. He shoves his shoes on his feet without bothering to lace them up and yanks open the door, slamming it behind him.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he walks down to the street. This is exactly what he was scared would happen. He kind of feels like he just got dropped into the middle of a nightmare.

He hears the door open behind him and Connor’s voice calling his name, but he refuses to turn around. “Just drop it,” he yells back. “This was never a good idea.” 

He’s afraid Connor or Dylan will actually run after him, but when he’s made it to his car, they’re nowhere to be seen. He slams his car door when he’s getting in and abruptly feels stupid for doing it. He’s still fuming with anger: at Connor for starting the dumb argument in the first place and asking Dylan’s opinion, at Dylan for not thinking before he spoke, at himself for getting so worked up. 

It was a surface level conflict, sure, but Mitch can’t be objective about this at all; the entire thing stabs him right in the heart. It’s like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop for ages, and when he finally started to think it wouldn’t, it slammed down. 

Mitch takes a deep breath and tries to shake it off enough to drive home. By the time he gets there, the anger has worn off and he’s more resigned and upset than anything. He doesn’t bother to turn on any lights in his apartment, heading straight for his bed and crawling in fully clothed. He wants to cry, but his face mostly just hurts instead of actually producing any tears. 

He hates that he ever thought this would be okay at all. It was stupid the whole time. He should've known better than to think he could ever fit into something that he's always been on the outside of. 

 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Dylan says. “Fuck.”

Connor sits back down on the couch and shakes his head. “He’s not coming back to hear you say that.” 

“Why don’t I ever think before I fucking talk?” Dylan asks. He can’t get the way Mitch’s face had fallen and then immediately turned angry out of his head. He sits down heavily next to Connor. “That was—”

“That was exactly what he was afraid of,” Connor says. His tone is scarily flat. “Us prioritizing each other over him.” 

There are frustrated tears welling up in Dylan’s eyes, and he blinks them back. “I didn’t mean to upset him,” he says. “It was just an argument about fucking _rec hockey_.” 

“Exactly,” Connor says, still staring straight ahead. Dylan can’t deny that he knows what Connor means. It was the stupidest time to make a joke and the easiest place to make Mitch feel at ease, and Dylan fucked it up. 

“We can’t do that again,” Dylan says. “We have to—fuck, we have to apologize.”

“Hey,” Connor says, finally moving out of his statue-like position and pulling Dylan into a hug. Dylan goes easily, pressing his face into Connor’s shirt. “Yeah, we do, but it can’t be that bad, right? This is what we have to do. Put the work in.”

“Own up when we fuck up,” Dylan says. He pulls back from the hug. “Can we call him now?”

Connor shakes his head. “He told me to drop it when I yelled after him,” he says. 

Dylan stares at him. “We can’t do _nothing_.” 

“We can at least give him an hour to cool off,” Connor says.

Dylan begrudgingly admits that’s reasonable, but that doesn’t make it any easier to wait. The minutes seem to crawl by, even when they turn on the TV in an attempt to kill it. Dylan doesn’t have a clue what they even watch, and as soon as it’s over, Connor turns off the TV and says, “Okay, let’s call before it gets too late.”

It’s already late, and it hasn’t quite been forty-five minutes, even, but Dylan isn’t going to complain. He’s tense the entire time they’re listening to the phone ring, and it goes on for long enough that Dylan thinks they’re going to get voicemail.

They don’t. Mitch answers with a quiet “Hey.”

“I’m sorry, Mitch,” Dylan says immediately. “I shouldn’t have automatically taken Connor’s side against you, that’s unfair.”

“Yeah,” Mitch says. He sounds tired. “I know it was dumb to get mad about something so stupid, it’s just hockey, but…”

“No,” Connor says firmly, “you were right. It got out of hand, for sure, but I can’t ask Dylan to gang up on you with me like that. We’re really sorry.”

Dylan nods even though it’s not like Mitch can see him. “Really sorry,” he repeats. “I wasn’t thinking at all what it would sound like. I know that’s not an excuse, but I promise to try my best to be better.”

Mitch is quiet for a long moment. Dylan looks at Connor in question, and Connor shrugs minutely. “Well,” Mitch says eventually, “thanks, I’m glad. But, like, if you do that for something small, then what are you going to do when it’s something big? It’s just not worth it.” 

Dylan feels Mitch’s words like a stab in the gut. Connor looks stunned as well, but he’s shaking his head. “Come on, we’re working at this, right? We can’t give up just because one thing went wrong.” 

“It’s a trial, right?” Dylan jumps in. “Like a beta version you need to fix the flaws in.” 

“Or like a final version you shouldn’t be screwing around with,” Mitch says. 

“No,” Connor says at the same time as Dylan says, “We’re not _screwing around_ with anything.” 

“Whatever, guys,” Mitch says. He doesn’t even sound as annoyed as his words would suggest, just defeated. “It all looks great on paper, but so did the whole relationship, you know? I think I just need… I don’t know, time. Okay?” 

Neither Connor nor Dylan respond right away. Dylan can’t figure out what else there is to say, though, so he forces himself to reply, “Okay.”

“We’ll talk to you later, then,” Connor says.

“Night,” Mitch says, and then the call disconnects. 

Dylan stares at the red ‘Call Ended’ message until it disappears and the screen goes dark. “I feel like we should have said more,” he says.

“There wasn’t anything else to say after he said that,” Connor says dully. “He wants time, he gets to have it.”

“Ugh,” Dylan says, knowing that Connor is right. “Fuck, let’s just go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better than this shit.”

Connor snorts. “That’s not a very high bar.” 

“I know,” Dylan says grimly. 

 

 

As these things go, it’s a pretty good time for Connor to have a relationship crisis: they’re in the middle of a case at work, in that stage where everything is starting to come together and expose all the logistical flaws they haven’t caught yet, and it’s easy for Connor to throw himself into that instead of thinking about Mitch. 

He and Dylan are both quiet at home, mostly for lack of anything to say. Dylan apologizes to Connor multiple times in the days after the fight because he knows that Connor shuts down like this when he’s angry. What he doesn’t seem to realize, even when Connor tries to tell him, is that Connor is mostly angry at himself. It was his fault for asking Dylan to back him up, after all. 

They both jump every time their phones so much as ghost vibrate, but by the time Saturday morning rolls around, Mitch still hasn’t contacted them. Connor has to go to the office to finish something he didn’t manage to get done the night before, but he’s bound and determined to make it to coffee anyway. He makes Dylan come with him so they don’t have to waste time backtracking and mildly regrets it when Dylan spends the entire time Connor is trying to do work nervously twitching in the cubicle across from Connor’s.

“Are you almost done?” Dylan asks.

“Almost,” Connor says, gritting his teeth and determinedly not looking at his watch or up at the clock on the wall. 

Dylan makes a noise of affirmation and starts spinning in the office chair. Connor reads over the documents one last time, takes in basically nothing, and decides it’s done. “Okay,” he says, shutting the file folder and hitting print on his computer. “Just gotta grab this and leave it on Taylor’s desk, and then we’re out of here.” 

“Thank fuck,” Dylan says, already beelining for the door. “We’re going to be late, come on.” 

Connor makes sure to stack the papers neatly on Taylor’s desk and double checks that they’re all there, because he knows with all this adrenaline pumping through his system if he doesn’t he’ll totally forget later and have to come back to check. 

After the sloppiest reports Connor has probably ever called good and two nearly-run red lights, they’re still fifteen minutes late for coffee. Mitch is nowhere to be seen, and Connor’s heart sinks in his chest. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

“Maybe he thought we weren’t coming,” Dylan says, obviously panicking. “Maybe he was here and left.”

“Let’s ask,” Connor says, trying to keep a level head. He goes over to the counter, tugging Dylan lightly by the wrist, and hovers until one of the Saturday morning regulars comes over to them. “Hey, Madison,” he says. “Have you see Mitch this morning?” 

Madison shakes her head. “No, didn’t see him at all.” 

Connor nods and manages a smile even though he wishes he’d never gotten out of bed this morning. “Thanks,” he tells her. 

Dylan has a crushing grip on Connor’s wrist now. “Connor,” he says. 

“Weird, right?” Connor says. His voice sounds fake to his own ears. “Maybe he’s late.” 

Dylan frowns and nods slowly. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s wait.” 

They sit down at a table without ordering anything. After a tense moment, Connor reaches across the table and takes Dylan’s hand. 

In all the time they’ve known him, Mitch has never been late for coffee or missed it without letting them know. The fact that he’s not here means this is even worse than Connor was hoping. He’s trying to be hopeful here, but it’s hard when he can’t stop thinking about Mitch saying that it wasn’t worth it. 

Another fifteen minutes pass before Dylan squeezes Connor’s hand and says, “He’s not coming, is he?” 

“I was pretty sure he wasn’t when he wasn’t here when we got here,” Connor admits. 

Dylan nods. Connor wishes he could wipe the resigned look right off his face. “What do we do?” 

Connor shrugs. “I don’t know what we _can_ do,” he says. “He said he needed time.” 

“It’s not like him to not call,” Dylan points out. “I don’t think this is just time anymore. This is blowing us off, maybe for good.” 

“He’s allowed,” Connor says, carefully regulating his voice so that it doesn’t shake. “We always knew this could happen.” 

Dylan stares at him in disbelief. Connor doesn’t know what he said wrong; it’s not like he was lying at all. “What happened to putting in the work?” Dylan says, bitter. “You want to just give him up that easily?” 

“I…” Connor snaps his mouth shut. “Fuck, no,” he says. “You’re right, let’s go.” 

He makes to get up, but Dylan pulls him back, still staring. “Wait, where?” 

“To Mitch’s,” Connor explains. “I hope you’re ready to grovel, because we might have to.” 

Dylan hesitates another second before he stands. “Okay, yeah. I’m ready,” he says. 

They get more and more keyed up on the drive over to Mitch’s, shooting each other hesitant looks. By the time they’re actually knocking on Mitch’s door, Connor is ready to vibrate out of his skin.

The Mitch that answers the door looks a mess, still wearing pajamas and sporting major bedhead. He blinks at them in confusion, squinting, and then his eyes widen in alarm. “Fuck, what time is it?” 

“Like, quarter past ten,” Connor says. “You look—”

“We were worried about you,” Dylan interrupts. “Sorry if we shouldn’t have shown up.”

“Uh,” Mitch says. “No, that’s okay. Sorry. I’m just.” He winces. “Hungover.” 

“Oh,” Connor says. That definitely explains why clearly Mitch didn’t get up at the crack of dawn like usual. He’s suddenly not so much concerned with getting Mitch back as he is with making Mitch look more human again. “Do you need anything?” 

Mitch shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“You sure?” Connor asks. “Do you have Gatorade and stuff?” 

“No?” Mitch says, clearly taken off guard. 

“We’ll go get you hangover essentials,” Dylan says decisively, speaking Connor’s mind. “Do you want breakfast too?” 

Mitch blinks. “I… no, I have food.”

“Okay,” Dylan says. “We’ll be back in, like, half an hour maybe. Eat something.”

Mitch looks like he wants to protest but isn’t quite sure how, so Connor says goodbye and closes the door before he can figure it out. “Well, that was…”

“Unexpected,” Dylan finishes. He shrugs. “What do you think, grocery store?”

“I guess so,” Connor agrees. They don’t talk about it further.

They buy Mitch a pack of Gatorade and Advil, and after some deliberation, a box of crackers and some soup. When they knock on Mitch’s door again, he answers right away. He looks better already, clearly having showered and changed into different sweats in the time they were gone. 

“We know you said you have food,” Dylan says immediately, “but we got you soup anyway. Save it for later, that stuff’s good microwaved.”

“You really didn’t have to do any of this,” Mitch says, taking the stuff from them. He doesn’t make a move to invite them in at all. “Seriously, I’m fine.” 

Connor shrugs. “Now you’re even more fine,” he says. “Don’t worry, we don’t expect anything from you.” 

Mitch frowns. He looks hesitant, but when he actually speaks, he just says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Connor says. “See you later, okay?” 

“Uh,” Mitch says, “yeah. See you later.” 

“Bye,” Dylan says, waving to Mitch and turning to go. 

There was significantly less groveling in that visit than Connor had pictured, but, he thinks as he glances over his shoulder and sees that Mitch hasn’t shut the door yet, they definitely did what they came to do. It hadn’t really been the point, but fighting for someone doesn’t always have to be verbal. He feels confident in thinking that the ball is firmly in Mitch’s court on this one.

“Do you think we’ll see him?” Dylan asks when they’re in the car.

It’s a dumb question at face value; of course they’ll see Mitch again. But Connor knows exactly what Dylan means. He shrugs. “I hope so,” he says. “I really, really hope so.”

 

 

Mitch stares blankly into his soup, taking a spoonful and then turning the spoon to let it drop back into the bowl. He’s curled up on his couch with his favourite blanket, having shoved both Advil and Gatorade into his system in an attempt to feel better, but he still feels shitty. He’s pretty sure a lot of it is physical from the truly inadvisable amount of alcohol he consumed with his work friends the night before, but he also can’t stop thinking about how Connor and Dylan must have felt when they realized he wasn’t showing up to coffee, and that’s enough to make anyone feel sick.

It wasn’t that Mitch meant to skip it—he doesn’t know what he would’ve done if he was awake, but he didn’t set an alarm because he usually doesn’t need one, so he never had to make that choice. He knows how he would have felt if it had been him, though, and it’s not pretty.

It’s just unbelievable, Mitch thinks as he stirs the soup some more, that they not only showed up at his place, but they also immediately went and did something nice for him. It’s just soup, but… it’s obvious they care about him. 

Maybe he’s been putting them on too high of a pedestal. Sure, their relationship has always looked perfect to Mitch, but that’s the product of years of experience. They’ve both said as much. Maybe it was unfair for Mitch to expect them to immediately have it all figured out. Old habits die hard, after all. 

Is Mitch really willing to let it all go because of Dylan slipping and making a joke he’s been saying habitually for a year? This whole thing is brand new for all of them, and maybe Mitch needs to allow room for _all_ of them to fuck up. Maybe it’ll never get better, but—maybe it will. They’re never going to find out if they don’t keep trying. 

Mitch sits up and puts his soup bowl down on the coffee table. “Fucking soup,” he mutters. He can’t believe he ever lucked into finding these nice, attractive, good-at-cuddling, _soup-bringing_ assholes. “Fuck,” he says louder, standing and looking around for where he kicked his shoes off in his drunken stupor the night before. He hopes Connor and Dylan went home and haven’t gone out anywhere since, because he needs to talk to them right now, and he’s not about to do it over the phone this time.

Of course, waiting for someone to open the door is even worse than waiting for someone to answer the phone. Mitch bounces slightly on his toes as he waits, trying not to think about how he’s going to have to drive back home if no one answers. He almost knocks again, but before he can raise his hand to do so, the door swings open. 

It’s Dylan. He stares at Mitch for a long minute, not moving. Mitch bites his lip, waiting, then breaks and says, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Dylan says, still not moving.

“Um…” Mitch says. The longer he stands here, the more stupid he feels. “Can I maybe come in?” 

Dylan starts and opens the door further, backing up. “Yeah, please,” he says. He turns and yells for Connor. Mitch closes the door behind himself and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“What?” Connor is asking as he comes into the room. He stops short when he sees Mitch. “Oh. Hey.” He glances at Dylan, then looks back at Mitch. “You look better, how are you feeling?” 

“Better, thanks,” Mitch says. Connor nods and lifts a hand like he’s going to touch Mitch, then drops it again. Mitch is starting to realize that he really didn’t think this through enough. “Can we, um… sit?” 

“Sure,” Dylan says. He and Connor start toward the living room, but Mitch doesn’t think he’s going to be able to concentrate if they all sit near each other on the couch, and he doesn’t want to look at them sitting on it by themselves. 

He gestures toward the dining room instead. “Over here?” he asks. 

Neither Connor nor Dylan protest; they just sit down on one side of the table. Mitch takes the other side and cringes slightly when he realizes they’re both looking at him expectantly. The extra minute he bought himself by having them sit hasn’t helped him figure out what to say at all. 

“Mitch?” Connor says in question when Mitch still hasn’t said anything after a minute.

“Sorry,” Mitch says. After all the urgency that drove him over here, his mind seems to have short-circuited in their presence. “Fuck, I don’t even know what I want to say.” 

“Do you want us to go first?” Dylan asks. “Because there are so many things I want to say.”

“No,” Mitch says immediately. “You’re just going to apologize again, and I don’t… it’s over, okay?” 

Dylan and Connor both look away, all the hope in their expressions gone, and Mitch immediately realizes he fucked that up. “Oh, no,” he says, trying to save it, “I didn’t mean… Listen, I don’t think I was being entirely fair.” 

Connor looks back at him, though Dylan’s gaze remains fixed somewhere on the ceiling to Mitch’s right. “Oh?” Connor asks. 

Mitch shakes his head. “It’s not like Dylan meant to hurt me, you know? It’s hard when everything changes. To know what to say sometimes, right?”

He looks at Dylan, waiting, and Dylan nods. “Right,” he says hesitantly. 

“So, uh,” Mitch continues, “it sucked, but it’s not…”

“Wait,” Connor says, “are you saying you forgive us?” 

“Yeah,” Mitch says, “I forgive you. I just… don’t know how easy it’s going to be for me to forget, you know? So you’ll have to be patient.”

“You mean you want to try again?” Dylan asks. 

“Yeah,” Mitch says again. “I mean… I think so, anyway. If you guys want to.” 

“I want to,” Connor says immediately.

“Me too,” Dylan agrees. 

Mitch nods. The individual agreement isn’t at all lost on him. “Okay,” he says. “I just have to remember that we all have work to do here, including me. It’s like we talked about before. Relationships are work.” Connor and Dylan nod along as he talks, and it makes Mitch feel a lot more confident in his words. “So I need to remember not to run away as soon as I get scared, and—”

“And we need to do our best not to scare you,” Dylan says. 

“And when we fuck up, we try again,” Connor adds. 

Mitch doesn’t like that _when_ , but he supposes that’s only being realistic. “I still want it to be a trial, though,” he says, because there’s definitely a point where waiting for the next _when_ would just be stupid on his part. If Connor and Dylan end up being old dogs who can’t learn new tricks, Mitch still wants to be able to get out with as much of his dignity and as intact a heart as he can. “Like I said about forgetting…”

Dylan nods. “Of course,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Still a trial,” Connor says. He mostly just sounds relieved. “Honestly, Mitch, thank you for even coming over.” 

Mitch shrugs, awkward. “I wanted to,” he says. “Obviously.”

“Still,” Connor says. 

Mitch nods. They’re all quiet, looking at each other hesitantly, and Mitch wishes now that he hadn’t brought them over to the table. He feels like a conversation like that should end with a hug to get rid of some of the tension, but he can’t hug them from over here. 

Mitch stands up, and Connor and Dylan hurry to stand as well. “Wait, stay there,” he tells them. He walks around the table to them and hesitates before putting a hand on each of their shoulders and guiding them in. “Hug it out.” 

Connor and Dylan both laugh a little, but when Mitch puts his arms around them and holds on, they hug him back just as hard. 

 

 

Things seem to mostly go back to normal after Mitch forgives them, but Dylan can’t deny that there’s an underlying tension a lot of the time. They’re all obviously being careful, and Mitch seems to have put up an emotional wall between himself and Connor and Dylan. Dylan can’t blame him at all—they deserve it, even—but he wishes he knew how to put Mitch at ease.

The worst is at hockey. They all agreed not to mention anything or be too obvious in front of anyone because none of them really want to explain and then have it not work out. It’s a good concept, but it makes Dylan extra self-conscious every time he’s interacting with Mitch, and then he worries that if he doesn’t also curb himself around Connor that will alienate Mitch. With so much to worry about off the ice, just playing the game is the only time Dylan really lets himself relax. 

Then Mitch gets hit in a late November game and goes down hard into the boards, and Dylan loses any semblance of cool he was retaining. He’s standing as soon as he sees Mitch go down on the far side of the ice. Their ref blows the whistle to stop the game, obviously seeing the same thing Dylan is, and when Mitch doesn’t move at all for too long, Dylan launches himself over the boards.

Connor was already on the ice, and he makes it to Mitch before Dylan does. Dylan stops short, every reminder he’s ever heard about giving an injured person space preventing him from going any closer. “Is he okay?” he asks. He sounds a little hysterical even to himself, but he can’t help it. Mitch is lying in a position that doesn’t look good, and he’s not _moving_. 

Connor is kneeling beside Mitch, repeating his name over and over. He shakes his head after a minute and looks up at the crowd that’s gathering. “Someone call an ambulance,” he says. “He’s not responding, and I don’t think we should try to move him.”

“Em already went for her phone,” TK says. “She’ll call.” 

“Fuck,” someone else says. “Did you see what happened?” 

“It was a clean hit,” Dylan says, feeling numb. “He just went down wrong. Head into the boards.” 

“Fuck,” says a different person this time. 

“Mitch?” Connor says suddenly. “Hey, Mitch, don’t move.” 

“Wh…” Dylan hears Mitch start to say. Dylan takes a deep breath, his heart racing in his chest. 

“You got hit,” Connor explains. Dylan has the brief thought that someone who isn’t Connor should be talking to Mitch, because there’s no way Connor isn’t in as much shock as Dylan is right now. Even if Dylan didn’t _know_ Connor, he can see his hands shaking. “At hockey,” Connor continues, “and we’re getting you help, okay? Just don’t move.”

Mitch doesn’t move, but he does seem to wake up more. “M’kay,” he says. “Can still feel everything. Too much. Ha.” 

Dylan thinks he might be tearing up a bit. Of _course_ Mitch is trying to make a joke right now. 

“Good, that’s good,” Connor says. “Don’t risk it, though.” 

“‘kay,” Mitch agrees. 

Dylan can hear someone clearing everyone else off the ice, but he ignores them completely, and no one even tries to make him or Connor leave. They both wait until the EMTs show up, and then they clear out of the way and watch anxiously as they get Mitch onto a stretcher. 

“Does he seem…” Dylan murmurs to Connor, not daring to finish his sentence.

“I think he’s gonna be okay,” Connor whispers back. “Look, he’s making a joke again.”

Sure enough, one of the paramedics is laughing, and Mitch’s smile is obvious, though it slips off his face easily after a split second. Dylan takes that as a good sign. 

“Dylan and Connor?” one of them asks as they trail behind while the paramedics carry Mitch off.

“Yes?” Dylan says, confused. 

“I’m Max,” he says. “I work with Mitch.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. He doesn’t know why he didn’t realize that Mitch might know the paramedics who showed up, because it seems obvious now. 

“Does one of you want to come in the ambulance?” Max asks. 

Dylan and Connor exchange a glance. “You go,” Connor says to Dylan. “I’ll come after and bring the car.”

“Are you—” Dylan starts, but Connor gives him a look that brokers no argument. “Okay. See you there.” 

As rides in an ambulance go, this one is fairly quiet. The paramedics do a bunch of stuff that Dylan isn’t paying attention to in favour of just staring at Mitch’s face. It’s not like he thinks Mitch is going to literally die right now, but if there were ever a place to contemplate mortality, Dylan thinks the back of an ambulance would be it. 

A minute into the ride, Mitch reaches out and taps Dylan’s knee with his hand. “Come on, loser,” he mutters. His eyes are closed because the light was bothering him, so his aim sucks, and Dylan has to grab at his hand in order to get a hold of it. He squeezes once gently and then doesn’t let go until they make it to the hospital and he has to. 

He gets shooed away from Mitch and pointed toward the waiting room, where he sits down in a chair and tries not to panic. That’s where Connor finds him ten minutes later, staring into the distance. He sits down next to Dylan and takes his hand. 

“Is he okay?” Connor asks.

Dylan shrugs. “Seemed about the same,” he says. “Made me hold his hand in the ambulance.” 

Connor nods. “That hit looked…”

“I know,” Dylan says. “I’m fucking—” He cuts himself off.

“Scared,” Connor finishes for him. “But at least he woke up.”

Dylan nods. He’s doing his best to cling to optimism even though he keeps thinking about all the things that might have happened to Mitch. Dylan’s not even sure how much anyone will tell them. He wonders if they should be calling Mitch’s family, then reasons that someone would tell them to if they needed to, and they could figure it out then. Dylan’s not even sure he knows where to find Mitch’s parents.

The wait for news is long. A few minutes into it, Dylan realizes that he’s still wearing most of his hockey gear—he’d only taken the time to get his boots instead of skates before getting into the ambulance. He figures he must look ridiculous, so he takes it off. He’s not sure sitting there in his UnderArmour with a pile of gear next to him is any better, but at least it’s comfier. He wants to regret not just coming behind with Connor, but then he thinks about Mitch reaching for his hand in the ambulance and can’t.

“I grabbed your skates and Mitch’s stuff,” Connor says, watching him. 

Dylan nods. “That’s good,” he says. He settles back down in his chair and stretches his feet out in front of him, then reaches for Connor’s hand again. 

Dylan spends ten minutes staring at the clock on the wall before he decides watching the second hand tick at a glacial pace is making everything worse. He forces himself to stop looking, closing his eyes and resting his head on Connor’s shoulder, and so he’s genuinely not sure how long it is before Mitch comes into the room.

Connor immediately shakes Dylan and drags him up as he’s standing himself. “Mitch,” he says.

“Hey, guys,” Mitch says. He looks exhausted and is carrying all his hockey gear without a bag, but he’s by himself and walking and absolutely perfect, if you ask Dylan. “You stuck around.” 

“Of course,” Connor says. “What’d the doctor say?” 

“Concussion,” Mitch replies. “She doesn’t think it’s a severe one, either. She said it could’ve been a lot worse and that it was good that we were so careful, but.” He shrugs and nearly drops his shoulder pads. “I’m pretty much fine. All cleared to just go home and sleep for a while.” 

“We’ll come with you,” Dylan says. 

Mitch looks surprised, which Dylan thinks is pretty silly. “You don’t have to, if you could just drop me off that would be enough.” As he talks, the shoulder pads he’s been precariously balancing fall to the floor.

“Please don’t make us leave,” Connor says, picking up the shoulder pads. He sounds every bit as reluctant to let Mitch out of their sight as Dylan is. “We just want to help. Please let us?” 

Mitch hesitates another moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says. 

Mitch is definitely quieter than usual on the way to his place and when they get inside, but he doesn’t seem too out of it or anything. He gets pajamas out of his dresser and then waves a hand at it. “You guys can borrow stuff if you want. I probably have some that are too big for me.”

They find stuff and go to change, and when Dylan pokes his head back into Mitch’s room, he’s lying in the middle of his bed. He cracks his eyes open slightly when Dylan clears his throat. “Do you need anything?” Dylan asks. 

“No,” Mitch says, “just come to bed.” 

“Oh,” Dylan says. He looks at Connor hesitantly. 

“What’s the delay?” Mitch says. “You’re here, I’m concussed, I want cuddles. Turn off the light on your way over.”

It’s not like Dylan and Connor are going to argue with that. Connor flips off the light, and in silent agreement, they get in on either side of Mitch, moving in close and resting their arms over Mitch’s chest. Dylan presses his nose against Mitch’s shoulder and takes deep, steadying breaths. Just knowing that Mitch is right here, totally fine, is a comfort. He doesn’t know how he would’ve been able to stand it if Mitch had told them to go home. 

“You guys were really freaking out, huh?” Mitch says. He sounds like he’s trying to be blase, but the words have a serious tinge to them. 

“Yeah,” Dylan says quietly. “You just—you went down, and every sensible thought left my head.”

“Same,” Connor says. “I don’t know what we’d do if we… I don’t know, lost you. Not that I thought you died, but…” 

“Well,” Mitch says, “good thing I’m fine.”

“Mostly,” Dylan counters, putting the hand that’s not on Mitch’s chest on his forehead like he’s checking his temperature and then moving it off, feeling dumb.

Mitch snorts. “Did you just try to shield my head?”

“So what if I did?” Dylan says defensively. There’s a loaded pause, and then both Connor and Mitch start laughing. Dylan does too, rolling his eyes at himself.

“Oh my God,” Mitch says. “Ow, okay, laughing hurts.”

“Sorry,” Dylan says, shutting up.

“Not your fault,” Mitch says, tone fond. “Let’s sleep, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Connor says, and Dylan answers by attempting to snuggle in closer. Mitch rests his hand on Dylan’s hip and sighs slightly. Dylan focuses on listening to Connor and Mitch breathe, and between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.

 

 

Two weeks after he gets hit, Mitch is lying on his couch after dinner, doing a whole lot of intentional nothing to give his brain a rest, when his phone rings. He hurries to grab it off the coffee table, thanking whatever higher power there may be for the reprieve from absolute fucking boredom. It's Connor calling, and Mitch answers with a smile on his face. 

“Hey,” Connor says. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored,” Mitch says, lying back down on the couch and looking up at the ceiling. “What’s up?” 

“Just checking in,” Connor says. “Got a text from one of our college buddies just now.”

Dylan’s voice comes over the line, sounding like he’s shouting from a different room or at least the other side of the room Connor is in. “Just tell him we have a question!”

“A question?” Mitch asks. 

“I was _getting there,”_ Connor says, loud enough that Mitch is pretty sure it’s directed at Dylan. “Sorry. So this college friend—his name’s Alex—is gonna be in the area with his boyfriend, and they wanted to know if we wanted to do dinner or something.” 

“Okay,” Mitch says, unsure what this has to do with him. “Do you have to cancel something we were supposed to do? Because no problem, I get it.” He’s pretty sure he can replace whatever night that is with a few extra hours of sleep no sweat.

“No,” Connor says, sighing heavily, “they actually want to do it tomorrow, because they’re only here for the weekend.” 

“Just _ask_ him,” Dylan says, voice loud enough that he must be by Connor now. “Don’t give me that look. Mitch, do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow?”

“With you and your college buds?” Mitch asks.

“Just two of them,” Connor says. “They’re pretty nice, but don’t feel obligated or anything.”

Dylan scoffs. “Honestly, I’m willing to just tell them no. They should learn to plan ahead.” 

“Only say yes if you feel up to it, Mitch,” Connor insists.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Mitch says, because really, he thinks he could handle dinner in and some casual conversation. “But, um… what have you told them about us?” 

There’s silence on the line for a moment, and then Connor says, “Not a lot about _us_. Lots about you, that you’re our best friend here and we talk about you a lot—”

“Which they’ve made fun of us a bunch for,” Dylan interjects.

“—so they’d be interested in meeting you,” Connor continues, “but no pressure.”

“Yeah, you should stay home and take care of yourself,” Dylan says. “We can come over there instead.”

“I’m fine,” Mitch repeats. It sounds like he won’t have to be too on guard in front of these people, which is good. A side effect of being concussed is that his head often hurts too much to do most of the worrying he used to do about their relationship. It’s a lot easier to stop second guessing himself and just let it happen. “I can come to you, I’d like to meet them. This is Alex and… Brody? Am I thinking of the right people?”

“Yeah, you got it,” Dylan says. “Remind me which awful stories we’ve told you?” 

Mitch spends the better part of an hour on the phone with Connor and Dylan, the conversation rambling off in different directions before they manage to get around to picking a time for Mitch to come over the next day. He hangs up feeling better than he did before, even though he didn’t even feel bad; that’s just the effect Connor and Dylan have on him. 

He drags himself up off the couch, fully intending to shower and go to bed. Concussion aside, he’s going to need to be well-rested for making a good impression on new people tomorrow. 

 

 

Mitch arrives at Connor and Dylan’s intentionally early for dinner, planning to help them—well, Dylan—with the cooking. He and Connor make a fairly good sous chef team when they combine their efforts, and when Dylan gets tired of having to direct them in between them reading out steps from a recipe Dylan found on the internet in dumb accents, they spend an inordinate amount of time setting the table nicely with Connor and Dylan’s fancier set of dishware.

“I think the napkins really give it a nice touch,” Mitch muses.

“That one’s crooked,” Connor says, pointing to a napkin Mitch put maybe a centimetre out from the angle they’d been placing them at.

Mitch stifles a laugh. “You’re right.” He fixes it, then steps back and nods. “This is good work.” 

“Very classy,” Connor says. “Shall we check on the chef?” 

“We shall,” Mitch says solemnly. 

Dylan is leaning against the counter when they go back into the kitchen, looking at his phone. “You don’t look like a very professional chef,” Connor teases.

“Please,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes. “That’s ‘cause I’m mostly done. Potato bake in the oven, working on the steak, veggies to be thrown on when Alex and Brody actually get here, whenever that might be.” He looks at the clock pointedly.

“They’re usually not too late,” Connor says. “Can we break into the alcohol yet?”

“No,” Dylan says.

“Boo,” Mitch says, making a double thumbs down gesture. Connor points at him in agreement.

“That’s not being a considerate host,” Dylan says. “Take it up with Alex and Brody. In the meantime, get me a plate to put this steak on.” 

Connor goes to get one from the cupboard while Dylan moves to the pan and flips one of the pieces of steak with a fork. Mitch leans over Dylan’s shoulder and watches him cut one of the pieces in the middle, then cringes and gives him a doubtful look. “That cow is still _bleeding_ , Dylan,” he says. “You don’t need that plate yet.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s the cook in this house?” Dylan asks.

“It’s not like I don’t know what a cooked steak looks like,” Mitch retorts. 

“Don’t those come varied?” Connor asks, holding the plate uncertainly. “Not that I would ever try to cook it myself, but you have to specify in restaurants…” 

Dylan points at Connor. “See, it’s just rare! Not even, really, pretty sure this is at least medium.” 

“ _Bleeding_ ,” Mitch repeats. “It might even start mooing, I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

Dylan huffs and looks askance at Connor, who opens his mouth and then bites his lip. Mitch is abruptly aware of the many parallels of this moment to their last fight, and judging by the sudden increase in tension in the room, Dylan and Connor noticed as well.

“What if,” Connor says slowly, “we turn the pan down to minimum and ask Alex and Brody how they like their steak, then actually use the meat thermometer to see if it’s done?” 

The tension dissipates so quickly Mitch isn’t even sure he didn’t imagine it. “I don’t even know how to use that fucking thing,” Dylan complains, but he’s already reaching to turn the burner down. 

“Shut up, yes, you do,” Connor says, putting down the plate on the counter and opening a drawer to rummage around in it. “Where—ah, here we go. See, it only has two fucking buttons, Dyl. You know how it works.”

Dylan responds, but Mitch isn’t really listening anymore. The way Connor had clearly made a conscious choice not to just take Dylan’s side, even though he was easily on the path to doing so, means a lot to Mitch. He’s been less on guard lately, and to have that rewarded like this—it’s enough to make his head spin. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s not just the concussion. 

“Oh!” Dylan says loudly, startling Mitch out of his thoughts. “They’re here.” 

Sure enough, his words are followed up by a loud knock on the door. Connor and Dylan hurry for it, Mitch trailing after them. The greetings at the door are so loud and enthusiastic that Mitch doesn’t even really see Alex and Brody until the various bro hugs and general exclamations “you look good, man!” are over, and they’ve all stepped back.

“Guys,” Connor says, gesturing for Mitch to come closer, “this is Mitch. Mitch, this is Alex and Brody.” He gestures as he says their names: first to the short, scruffy-haired one, and then to the significantly taller and broader guy. Alex is wearing pretty casual clothes that stand out in stark contrast to Brody’s trousers and _actual bow tie._

“You _are_ cute,” Brody says, sticking out a hand for Mitch to shake. “It’s a pleasure, Mitchell.” 

Mitch shakes Brody’s hand, choosing to ignore the cute comment. “Same to you,” he says. He offers his hand to Alex to be polite, and Alex looks slightly surprised, but shakes it. 

“Don’t mind Brody being all proper, he’s just putting it on,” Alex says. 

“I am not,” Brody says, looking haughty and sniffing dramatically, but then he breaks out in a huge grin. “Nah, just joshin’ ya. What’s good, Mitch? I hear you’re injured?” 

“Hey, tell me how you like your steak before you start with the chatting,” Dylan says. “And tell Mitch what you want for drinks, I’ve appointed him as bartender.” 

“You have?” Mitch asks. 

“Yep, decided just now,” Dylan says, smirking at Mitch. 

Mitch is definitely not backing down from that challenge. “Fair warning, I make ‘em strong.” 

Everyone laughs at that. “I think I like this guy already,” Alex says. Mitch beams. He’s already pretty sure he’s going to like Alex and Brody, too. 

He becomes even more sure he likes Brody and Alex as the evening goes on. True to his word, he makes everyone’s first drinks strong—except his own, since he’s supposed to go easy on alcohol until he’s fully concussion-free. It makes for a loose and fun mood in a group that was already pretty loose to start with. Mitch learns a delightful amount of embarrassing things about Connor’s and Dylan’s university days, and he offers Brody and Alex his own stories from the past year in return. 

“So then,” Mitch says, pausing to build up the tension. They’re almost all done eating, so all the attention is focused on his storytelling. “Dylan comes back from the bathroom, still acting like a zombie the way he does in the mornings, you know?”

“Oh, we know all about _that_ ,” Alex agrees.

Mitch nods. “Connor’s back with the coffee, and it all seems fine, Dylan is heading for us… but then he stops and sits down at a table two ahead of us, and immediately puts his head down on his arms.”

“Oh _shit,”_ Brody says.

“And it’s not an empty table, either,” Mitch says. “Connor and I are just watching him, wondering when he’s going to realize. Then he looks up, clearly about to say something, and this lady he sat down with is just _staring_ at him, wondering what the fuck he’s doing at her table. He turned _bright red_.” 

“We _lost_ it,” Connor says gleefully. 

Alex and Brody both burst out laughing. “Oh my fucking God,” Alex says. “What did you do, Dylan?”

Dylan rolls his eyes, blushing slightly. “I apologized about sixty times,” he says. “Said I was a sleep deprived idiot.” 

“Which you were,” Mitch says, grinning. “But if you want to hear about sleep deprived idiots, how about that time Connor fell asleep in my car?” 

Connor groans, but Brody and Alex look interested. “Do tell,” Brody says. 

“This loser,” Mitch says, meaning to sound teasing but mostly succeeding is sounding fond, “decided after working a week of overtime that he absolutely couldn’t miss our Saturday morning coffee, even though Dylan was at work and I totally would’ve understood if they cancelled. He was practically falling asleep in his coffee, and when I drove him home, he fell asleep.”

“To be fair, you _let_ me keep sleeping parked outside the house,” Connor protests.

“Awww,” Brody coos. “That’s actually adorable.”

Mitch shrugs. “Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just stayed in bed,” he says.

Connor shrugs back at him. “Worth it,” he says. He prods Mitch’s feet with his under the table, then puts his feet on top of Mitch’s when he doesn’t deign to respond. 

“And look, now they’re playing footsie,” Alex says. 

Brody and Dylan immediately look down. Dylan snorts. “Mitch calls that the married version of footsie,” he says. He stretches his legs under the table to put his own feet on top of Connor’s. “And I’m still the winner.” 

“I’m going to actually throw up from how cute you three are together,” Brody says. “Please, stop it.” 

Dylan and Connor laugh at him and start teasing Brody about how he and Alex are plenty gross as well. When there’s a lull in the conversation, Mitch tugs his feet out from under Connor’s and Dylan’s so he can stand and start clearing the dirty plates off the table. 

“Oh, do you want help?” Alex asks.

“You don’t have to,” Mitch says, but Alex shrugs him off, already standing and helping to pick up empty plates. 

It takes a couple trips for them to clear the table. Alex heads back to sit down, but Mitch hesitates in the doorway, looking at them all sitting there, his open space waiting for him. It's weird, realizing that he's basically been playing the part of co-host here. He had this niggling thought in the back of his mind that he’d be a fifth wheel at this dinner, and to have that be so starkly false is something he’s not sure how to deal with. 

He turns and goes back in the kitchen, trying to get a hold of his emotions, and then turns on the water in the sink for something to do. He's watching it fill up when Alex comes back into the room.

"Hey," Mitch says. Alex nods and, weirdly, leans against the counter and looks at Mitch. Mitch waits, assuming Alex will either say something or leave.

He breaks when the sink is almost full. “Do you need something?” he asks.

Alex shrugs. “A glass of water? Booze is going to my head, I think.” 

“Oh,” Mitch says. He points at the cupboard behind Alex’s head. “The glasses are in there, and the water from the fridge is good.” 

Alex nods, turning around and getting a glass out of the cupboard. Mitch turns off the tap, intending to start washing, then realizes Alex still hasn’t moved. 

“You seem to know this house pretty well,” Alex says.

Mitch blinks. “I’m here a lot?” 

“Mmm,” Alex says. “I’ve heard that. Listen, about Connor and Dylan…”

“What?” Mitch asks, mildly alarmed. 

“They might seem like the perfect couple, but they’re not immune to harm,” he says. “So just so you know… I may be short, but I’ll fuck you up if you hurt them.”

Mitch stares at Alex. He hadn’t been expecting that at all. “I’m short, too,” he says dumbly.

Alex raises his eyebrows.

“I mean… I wouldn’t,” he amends quickly. “I don’t want to.” 

Alex nods. “Good talk, bud,” he says, slapping Mitch on the arm and heading across the kitchen to fill his glass up with water. Mitch watches him until he’s left the room again, then shakes his head, trying to snap out of it. 

He’s glad, at least, that Connor and Dylan have such solid friends to back them up, even though he hardly thinks they need protecting from him. If anyone’s going to be hurt here, it’s Mitch. He wasn’t lying when he said that he would never intentionally hurt them, and if he did, he’d do everything in his power to try and fix it. He’s—maybe a lot deeper into this than he previously realized. 

Mitch starts scrubbing at a pan, deliberately distracting himself from the panic he can feel sneaking up on him. He thought he was starting to be okay with just letting things happen as they happen, but apparently not. He hates that this is still scaring him when everything else about it is so easy. 

He’s halfway through cleaning the pots and pans when Dylan comes into the kitchen. “Hey,” he says, hooking his chin over Mitch's shoulder for a moment and then moving to stand next to him. “You didn’t have to wash the dishes. Especially not right away.”

Mitch shrugs, keeping his gaze focused on the sink. “Wanted to,” he says.

“You feeling okay? Dizzy at all?” Dylan asks. “Were we being too loud?” He puts his hand on Mitch’s a forehead, now a recurring joke since the first time he did it. It never fails to make Mitch smile, and tonight is no exception. 

“I’m okay, honest,” Mitch assures him. “You guys were fine.” Dylan stills looks doubtful, so Mitch steers the conversation in a different direction. “I like Alex and Brody a lot.”

“Yeah?” Dylan asks, looking pleased. “They like you, too, I can tell.” 

“Alex threatened me,” Mitch admits. “It was weirdly nice.” 

Dylan laughs. “Jesus Christ, no wonder Brinksy looked so pleased,” he says. “He _definitely_ approves, then. If he didn’t he wouldn’t bother to be even kind of nice.” 

“That’s reassuring,” Mitch says. He actually mostly means it. He looks back at the sink, giving the pot he’s working on a few cursory scrubs. He looks back up at Dylan, who’s watching him. “Dylan,” he starts, then stops.

“Hm?” Dylan asks.

Mitch frowns. “Do you ever feel like… this is too easy? Like, our relationship, I mean?”

It’s not exactly what Mitch wants to ask, he doesn’t think, but it’s close enough. He’s surprised when Dylan immediately nods. “All the time,” he says. “Too much of a good thing should be too good to be true, you know?”

“Right,” Mitch says. “Do you think it’s ever… going to stop?”

Dylan shrugs. “I think I’ve felt like that for seven years, even when shit isn’t good at all. So I feel it even more now, probably.”

“Huh,” Mitch says. “Okay.” 

Dylan looks like he’s about to say something else, but Connor comes into the kitchen. “Boys,” he says enthusiastically. His cheeks are a mottled red like they get when he’s drunk. “What’s going on in here? Mitch, stop doing the _dishes_ , do that later! We want to play a game, come on.” 

Dylan snorts and leans in to Mitch. “I think they did shots,” he stage whispers. “All right, Connor, what game are we playing?” 

“Come find out!” Connor says, practically skipping over to grab their hands. Dylan and Mitch both allow themselves to be dragged out of the kitchen without protest. 

 

At the beginning of December, Dylan and Connor invite Mitch to spend Christmas with them. Mitch isn't expecting it at all when they bring it up over dinner one night, and he lets them ramble on about understanding if he doesn't want to and being willing to split the day three ways for a few minutes before he gets his wits together enough to shake his head and say, "No, my brother is going to be at his girlfriend's, so we're doing stuff Boxing Day."

"Oh, good," Dylan says. "So we can do mine in the morning, Connor's at night, and yours the next day."

Connor hits Dylan in the shoulder. "Mitch didn't invite us yet, Dyls."

Mitch honestly hadn't even considered the possibility. It's not that he wouldn't like to spend Christmas with them, he just figured they'd be busy and wouldn't invite him to their parents' houses. Now that they have, though, he's not about to turn it down. 

He doesn't realize until the day after he invited them that he's going to have to call his mom and tell her. He's immediately worried that now that they've made these plans and involved three whole families, everything is going to go to shit. Then they'll have to explain, and Christmas will be weird, and everything will be terrible.

That doesn’t happen. Before Mitch knows it, they’re halfway through Christmas celebrations, and everything is honestly the opposite of terrible. 

After an exhausting but happy day of presents and socializing in two different households, the three of them are the last ones awake. They’re all still squished together on the loveseat even though the rest of the seating in the living room is free now, too comfortable and warm in front of the fire to want to go anywhere. Mitch is a little bit tipsy and entirely content. He loves this mood: when the room is only lit by the fire and the lights from the Christmas tree, and nobody feels the need to say anything.

The whole day has been exactly the kind of fun Mitch wants from holidays. He was still worried at first, thinking Connor’s and Dylan’s families wouldn’t appreciate some hanger-on joining in on their festivities, but, save for a bit of sibling interrogation that Mitch had to deflect, they treated him just like family. Connor’s mother even made him a makeshift stocking with his name on it in glitter glue and then apologized multiple times that it wasn’t good quality and embroidered like everyone else’s. Mitch told her repeatedly that he didn’t care and meant it; he was touched to even be invited to be there. 

He still feels pretty damn lucky to be sitting in between Connor and Dylan. He settles farther into them, sighing with content. Connor looks over at him and smiles, and Mitch wonders what it would be like to lean in and kiss him. Nice, probably. Easy.

Earlier that evening, when they were getting drinks from the kitchen, Connor and Mitch ended up running into each other underneath the mistletoe the McDavids have hanging on the kitchen doorway. Connor smiled at Mitch just like he’s doing now, and Mitch was frozen, both hoping and not hoping that Connor would kiss him. 

Neither of them moved for what felt like an eternity, and then Connor kissed Mitch on the cheek, and they laughed and moved on. Mitch still isn’t sure how he feels about it, but he can’t stop thinking about it. He thinks he might be disappointed—but more in himself than in Connor, he thinks. Maybe he should have made that move himself. Maybe he should make it now. 

Just as the thought is crossing his mind, though, Connor abruptly sits up. “We forgot!” he says.

“Wha…?” Dylan says, clearly having almost been sleeping.

Connor disentangles himself from their cuddle pile despite loud groans and protests from both Dylan and Mitch. He crawls around to the back of the tree and rummages for a moment, then comes back with a tiny rumpled package.

“Ohhhh,” Dylan says, clearly enlightened by this. 

“What is that?” Mitch asks. “A wad of wrapping paper?” 

“No, shut up,” Connor says. He holds it out to Mitch. “It’s for you.” 

Mitch takes it, inspecting the paper closely. “For me?” he asks, already ripping into the package. “What could you—oh.” 

It’s a handmade tree ornament of a hockey player. At least, Mitch is fairly sure that’s what it was intended to be. It’s clearly supposed to be the companion to the ornament they gave him last year—an ornament that has a prime hanging spot on the tiny Christmas tree in Mitch’s apartment. Mitch abruptly and vividly recalls saying he wanted the matched set.

“Wow,” he says. “This is—what the fuck is this blob?”

Dylan bursts out laughing. “It’s awful, right?” 

“What a sorry excuse for an ornament,” Mitch says. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from getting overly emotional about it. It means—well, it means more than he could ever hope to articulate. He’s not about to try. 

“You’re both so fucking rude,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. 

“Sorry, babycakes,” Mitch says, looking at Connor from underneath his eyelashes. “I love my present, you clearly poured your heart and soul into it.” 

Connor’s answering smile is too sincere for Mitch to properly look at. “That’s more like it,” he says. 

Mitch clears his throat and spread his arms. “Bring it in.” Dylan immediately turns on the loveseat to hug him, and Connor joins by practically sitting on top of them both. Mitch holds on to them for longer than the awkward position calls for. “Thanks,” he murmurs into the crook of Connor’s neck.

“You’re welcome,” Connor says, and then he tries to shift position and nearly falls right off the loveseat. Dylan and Mitch catch him just in time, and they all crack up. 

“Okay, okay,” Dylan says when they’ve calmed down. “I have an idea.” 

“Move to a piece of furniture with more room?” Mitch asks dryly.

“Smart, but no,” Dylan says. “I think we should get some more of those cookies Connor’s mom makes.”

“And _then_ move to a piece of furniture with more room?” Connor asks. 

Dylan rolls his eyes. “I _guess_ so,” he says. “You’re both so high maintenance.” 

“It’s your favourite thing about us,” Mitch says. “Get off me, we’re getting cookies.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Connor says, getting up and heading for the kitchen. Dylan squawks indignantly and scrambles to follow, and Mitch heads after them, laughing at Dylan’s complaints that it was _his_ idea. Right now, he thinks as he grabs a cookie out of Dylan’s hand instead of the container just to hear him complain some more, might be the happiest he’s ever been. For once, he's not going to question it. 

 

 

Mitch works a full shift after Boxing Day, so the next time he sees Connor and Dylan is at the New Year’s Eve party that TK and Lawson throw. It’s enough fun that they stay until well after midnight, and Mitch goes home with Connor and Dylan, all three of them piling into one bed.

Despite the late bedtime, Mitch is the first to wake up. He extracts himself from Dylan’s arms and gets up so he can go to the bathroom. He thinks he might be able to go back to sleep after, but unfortunately, it seems that once he’s up, he’s up. He feels surprisingly good considering how much he drank. Connor and Dylan still seem dead to the world; they’ve rolled apart in the time Mitch was gone so they’re sprawled over opposite sides of the bed.

Rather than disturb them, Mitch starts carefully stretching. It’s only about a minute before he notices Dylan’s eyes are half-open. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dylan says. 

“Starting the year as I mean to go on,” Mitch says, stretching out his side. 

“Get the fuck back in this bed,” Dylan says. “You fucking insufferable morning person. Fuck.” 

“Shut up,” Connor mumbles from the other side of the bed. 

Mitch laughs and actually does get back in the bed. Even if he can’t sleep, there’s nothing that beats having Connor and Dylan cuddle him, that’s for sure. 

It’s a good few hours before they get a move on and acquire breakfast. Mitch recruits Connor to help him needle Dylan into making them pancakes and bacon, and by the time he lies down on the couch with the last piece of bacon, he’s stuffed full.

“I love holidays,” Connor says as he sits down in one of the large armchairs. 

“Me too,” Mitch agrees. 

Dylan prods Mitch’s feet out of the way so he can sit on the other end of the couch. Mitch moves them for long enough for him to sit, then puts them in Dylan’s lap. “Me three,” Dylan says. “That party last night was pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah, TK and Lawson really know how to throw ‘em,” Connor says. “But to be honest, I was more talking about today. I love breakfast at lunch time and being able to go back to bed if I want to.” 

“Hear hear,” Mitch says. 

“And I love just being with you,” Connor adds, smiling over at them.

Dylan nods. “Same,” he says. 

Mitch’s heart gets stuck in his throat a little bit. Mitch wishes he could find the words—or word, he supposes—to so casually agree like that. 

A comfortable silence reigns in the room for a minute before Dylan says, “Oh, hey. Speaking of holidays—Mitch, did Connor show you what his mom did?” 

Mitch frowns. “No?” 

“Oh, right,” Connor says. “C’mere, Mitch.” 

Mitch groans, but he rolls off the couch and goes over to Connor. “What?” he asks, perching on the arm of the chair.

Connor holds his phone screen up so that Mitch can see it. There’s a picture of a high quality Christmas stocking with ‘Mitch’ embroidered on it. It’s an exact match to the ones that Dylan and Connor have at the McDavids. “It’s for next year,” Connor explains, smiling up at Mitch.

Mitch stares at the picture. If he was touched by the cheap glitter glue stocking, he has no idea what he is now. This kind of thing—this means that Connor’s mother expects Mitch to be at Christmas in _twelve months_. She wouldn’t think that if Connor didn’t, and if Connor is that sure… if he and Dylan are planning to be with Mitch a year from now… Mitch suddenly has absolutely no idea why he’s been stopping himself from having what he wants. Maybe, he thinks, he was waiting for this. 

Mitch looks at Connor for a long moment, mapping the slope of his nose and his slightly furrowed eyebrows, and then leans in and kisses him. Connor makes a surprised noise into his mouth, and Mitch nearly overbalances and falls off the chair before he gets a steadying hand on Connor’s shoulder. It’s strange for a split second, and then they both soften into it. Connor cups his hand around the back of Mitch’s neck, but otherwise lets Mitch lead. Mitch kisses him with purpose, trying stupidly to make up for lost time. By the time they pull apart, both of them are breathing heavily.

“Sorry that was a little late,” Mitch says.

Connor’s eyes are still closed, and when he slowly opens them, he looks dazed. “I would’ve waited another year if I had to,” he says. Mitch laughs breathlessly.

“Fuck _that_ ,” Dylan says, and both of them look over at him. “I’m not waiting another year, get the _fuck_ over here.” 

Mitch doesn’t waste a moment in taking the few steps across the room to Dylan. He means to kiss him as soon as he sits down next to him, but Dylan catches his face with his hand and rubs a thumb gently over Mitch’s cheekbone. It makes him smile dumbly, and Dylan kisses the corner of his mouth. Mitch chases his lips until they’re kissing properly. Dylan kisses like Connor’s perfect complement, and it makes Mitch want to know just how well they can put their skills together.

Then again, he thinks as Dylan pulls away, maybe he himself is proof of how good they are at that.

“So,” Dylan says, his voice slightly hoarse, “we’re doing this?” 

Mitch shrugs and reaches a hand out to Connor, who’s hovering in the middle of the room. Connor takes it, and Mitch tugs him in to sit on his other side. Sitting between Connor and Dylan, having just kissed them both, Mitch feels light, all the uncertainty and indecision he’s been carrying around dissipated. Now all that’s left is the potential he wouldn’t let himself consider before. He feels like they could take on the world together and win.

“For real now?” Connor prompts.

“You know,” Mitch says, beaming at them, “I think we already were.” 


End file.
